"Lady in the Tower" and "A Meeting of Minds"
are really logical extensions of the concept found in
"To Ride Pegasus," in which parapsychic powers are
combined with machines in a gestalt that gives the
mind enough power to reach the stars. They both
predate Dai op Owen and the Eastern Parapsychic
Center.

"Lady" is the story I prefer to acknowledge as my
first; it appeared in the Magazine of Fantasy and Sci-
ence Fiction in April 1959, in the distinguished com-
pany of Daniel Keyes' "Flowers for Algernon." Algis
Budrys was a reader for Bob Mills at the time and he
brought the story to Bob's notice. They both felt
that it needed some reworking and asked my per-
mission, which, needless to say, I immediately and
ecstatically gave. (Someone wanted to publish a story
of mine? Leap, grab, say YES!) I don't remember all
the changes Algis made, and I've made a few myself
with the wisdom and expertise of twenty years of
writing and publishing. But basically, it's the same
story.

Ten years later, "A Meeting of Minds" was pub-
lished by Ed Perman, the new editor of Fantasy and
Science Fiction. I have also done a good deal of rewrit-
ing on it, since that story had appeared so long after its
parent story.

Both are unashamed love stories. That's what I do
best: combining either science fact or fantasy with
heterogenous inter'reaction.

These two stories were supposed to be part of a
novel I'd tentatively entitled The Bitter Tower. But,
when I got started on the story "A Womanly Talent,"
I got involved with Dai op Owen and wrote the
four stories which comprise To Ride Pegasus. So these

two stories never became part of a novel. But the
Raven women are good strong characters, and who
knows when I'll write about that third generation of
Ravens.

Lady in the Tower

WHEN THE ROWAN CAME STORMING TOWARD

the station, its personnel mentally and literally ducked.
Mentally, because she was apt to forget to shield. Lit-
erally, because the Rowan was prone to slamming
around desks and filing cabinets when she got upset.
Today, however, she was in fair command of herself
and merely stamped up the stairs into the tower. A
vague rumble of noisy thoughts tossed around the
first floor of the station for a few minutes, but the
computer and analogue men ignored the depressing
effects with the gratitude of those saved from greater
disaster.

From the residue of her passage, Brian Ackerman,
the stationmaster, caught the impression of intense
purple frustration. He was basically only a T-9, but
constant association with the Rowan had widened his
area of perception. Ackerman appreciated this side
effect of his position--when he was anywhere else but
at the station.

He had been trying to quit Callisto for more than
five years, with no success. Federal Telepathers and
Teleporters, Inc., had established a routine regarding
his continuous applications for transfer. The first one
handed in each quarter was ignored; the second
brought an adroitly worded reply on how sensitive
and crucial a position he held at Callisto Prime Sta-
tion; his third--often a violently worded demand--
always got him a special shipment of scotch and to-
bacco; his fourth--a piteous wail--brought the Sec-
tion Supervisor out for a face-to-face chat and, only
then, a few discreet words to the Rowan.

3

Ackerman was positive she always knew the full
story before the Supervisor finally approached her.
It pleased her to be difficult, but the one time Acker-
maQ discarded protocol and snarled back at her, she
had mended her ways for a whole quarter. It had
reluctantly dawned on Ackerman that she must like
him and he had since used this knowledge to advan-
tage. He had lasted eight years, as against five station-
masters in three months before his appointment.

Each of the twenty-three station staff members
had gone through a similar shuffling until the Rowan
had accepted them. It took a very delicate balance of
mental talent, personality, and intelligence to achieve
the proper gestalt needed to move giant liners and tons
of freight. Federal Tel and Tel had only five com-
plete Primes--five T-l's--each strategically placed in
a station near the five major and most central stars
to effect the best possible transmission of commerce
and communications throughout the sprawling Nine-
Star League. The lesser staff positions at each Prime
Station were filled by personnel who could only tele-
port, or telepath. It was FT & T's dream someday to
provide instantaneous transmission of anything, any-
where, anytime. Until that day, FT & T exercised
patient diplomacy with its five T-l's, putting up with
their vagaries like the doting owners of so many
golden geese. If keeping the Rowan happy had meant
changing the entire lesser personnel twice daily, it
would probably have been done. As it happened, the
present staff had been intact for over two years and
only minor soothing had been necessary.

Ackerman hoped that only minor soothing would
be needed today. The Rowan had been peevish for a
week, and he was beginning to smart under the back-
lash. So far no one knew why the Rowan was upset.

Ready for the liner! Her thought lashed out so
piercingly that Ackerman was sure everyone in the
ship waiting outside had heard her. But he switched
the intercom in to the ship's captain.

"I heard," the captain said wryly. "Give me a five-
count and then set us off."

Ackerman didn"t bother to relay the message to
the Rowan. In her mood, she'd be hearing straight

4

to Capella and back. The generator men were hopping
between switches, bringing the booster field up to
peak, while she impatiently revved up the launching
units to push-off strength. She was well ahead of the
standard timing, and the pent-up power seemed to
keen through the station. The countdown came fast
as the singing power note increased past endurable
limits.

ROWAN, NO TRICKS, Ackerman said.

He caught her mental laugh, and barked a warning
to the captain. He hoped the man had heard it, be-
cause the Rowan was on zero before he could finish
and the ship was gone beyond radio transmission dis-
tance in seconds.

The keening dynamos lost only a minute edge of
sharpness before they sang at peak again. The lots on
the launchers snapped out into space as fast as they
could be set up. Then the loads rocketed into receiv-
ing area from other Prime Stations, and the ground
crews hustled rerouting and hold orders. The power
note settled to a bearable hum as the Rowan worked
out her mood without losing the efficient and accurate
thrust that made her FT & T's best Prime.

One of the ground crew signaled a frantic yellow
across the board, then red as ten tons of cargo from
Earth settled on the Priority Receiving cradle. The
waybill said Deneb VIII, which was at the Rowan's
limit. But the shipment was marked "Rush/Emer-
gency, priority medicine for a virulent plague on the
colony planet." And the waybill specified direct trans-
mission.

Well, where're my coordinates and my placement
photo? snapped the Rowan. / can't thrust blind, you
know, and we've always rerouted for Deneb VIII.

Bill Powers was flipping through the indexed cata-
logue, but the Rowan reached out and grabbed the
photo.

Zowie! Do I have to land all that mass there my-
self?

No, Lazybones, I'll pick it up at 24.578.82--that
nice little convenient black dwarf midway. You won't
have to strain a single convolution. The lazy mascu-
line voice drawled in every mind.

5

The silence was deafening.

Well, I'll be . . . came from the Rowan.

Of course, you are, sweetheart--just push that nice
little package out my way. Or is it too much for you?
The lazy voice was solicitous rather than insulting.

You'll get your package! replied the Rowan, and
the dynamos keened piercingly just once as the ten
tons disappeared out of the cradle.

Why, you little minx . . . slow it down or I'll bum
your ears back!

Come out and catch it! The Rowan's laugh broke
off in a gasp of surprise and Ackerman could feel her
slamming up her mental shields.

/ want that stuff in one piece, not smeared a mil-
limeter thin on the surface, my dear, the voice said
sternly. Okay, I've got it. Thanks! We need this.

Hey, who the blazes are you? What's your place-
ment?

Deneb Sender, my dear, and a busy little boy right
now. Ta ta.

The silence was broken only by the whine of the
dynamos dying to an idle burr.

Not a hint of what the Rowan was thinking came
through now, but Ackerman could pick up the aura
of incredulity, shock, speculation, and satisfaction that
pervaded the thoughts of everyone else in the station.
The Rowan had met her match. No one except a T-l
could have projected that far. There'd been no men-
tion of another T-l at FT & T, and, as far as Acker-
man knew, FT & T had all of the five known T-ls.
However, Deneb was now in its third generation and
colonial peculiarities had produced the Rowan in two.

"Hey, people," Ackerman said, "sock up your
shields. She's not going to like your drift."

Dutifully the aura was dampened, but the grins did
not fade and Powers started to whistle cheerfully.

Another yellow flag came up from a ground man
on the Altair hurdle and the waybill designated Live
shipment to Betelgeuse. The dynamos whined noisily
and then the launcher was empty. Whatever might be
going through her mind at the moment, the Rowan
was doing her work.

All told, it was an odd day, and Ackerman didn't

know whether to be thankful or not. He had no prece-
dents to go on and the Rowan wasn't leaking any
clues. She spun the day's lot in and out with careless
ease. By the time Jupiter's bulk had moved around to
blanket out-system traffic, Callisto's day was over,
and the Rowan wasn't off-power as much as decibel
one. Once the in-Sun traffic was finished with, Acker-
man signed off for the day. The computer banks and
dynamos were slapped off ... but the Rowan did
not come down.

Ray Loftus and Afra, the Capellan T-4, came over
to sit on the edge of Ackerman's desk. They took out
cigarettes. As usual, Afra's yellow eyes began to wa-
ter from the smoke.

"I was going to ask her Highness to give me a lift
home," Loftus said, "but I dunno now. Got a date
with--"

He disappeared. A moment later, Ackerman could
see him near a personnel carrier. Not only had he
been set gently down, but various small necessities,
among them a shaving kit, floated out of nowhere
onto a neat pile in the carrier. Ray was given time
to settle himself before the hatch sealed and he was
whisked off.

Powers joined Afra and Ackerman.
"She's sure in a funny mood," he said.
When the Rowan got peevish, few of the men at
the station asked her to transport them to Earth.
She was psychologically held planetbound, and re-
sented the fact that lesser talents could be moved
about through space without suffering traumatic
shock.

Anyone else?

Adier and Toglia spoke up and promptly disap-
peared together. Ackerman and Powers exchanged
looks which they hastily suppressed as the Rowan ap-
peared before them, smiling. It was the first time that
welcome and totally unexpected expression had
crossed her face for two weeks.

She smiled but said nothing. She took a drag of
Ackerman's cigarette and handed it back with a
thank-you. For all her temperament, the Rowan acted
with propriety face to face. She had grown up with

7

her skill, carefully taught by the old and original T-l,
Siglen, the Altairian. She'd had certain courtesies
drilled into her: the less gifted could be alienated by
inappropriate use of talent. She was perfectly justified
in "reaching" things during business hours, but she em-
ployed the usual methods at other times.

"The big boys mention our Denebian friend be-
fore?" she asked, all too casually.

Ackerman shook his head. "Those planets are three
generations colonized, and you came out of Altair in
two."

"That could explain it, but there isn't even an FT &
T station. And you know they advertise continuously
for anyone with Talent."

"He's a wild talent?" Powers helpfully suggested.

"Too far off the beaten track." She shook her head.
"I checked it. All I can get from Center is that they
received an urgent call about a virus, were given a run-
down on the syndrome and symptoms. Lab came up
with a serum, batched and packed it. They were as-
sured that there was someone capable of picking it up
and taking it the rest of the way past 24.578.82 if a
Prime would get it that far. And that's all anybody
knows." Then she added thoughtfully, "Deneb VIII
isn't a very big colony."

Oh, we're big enough, sweetheart, interrupted the
drawling voice. Sorry to get you after hours, my
dear, but 1 can't seem to get in to Terra and I heard
you coloring the atmosphere.

What's wrong? the Rowan asked. Did you smear
your serum after all that proud talk?

Smear it hell! I've been drinking it. We've got some
ET visitors. They think they're exterminators. Thirty
UFO's are perched four thousand miles above us.
That batch of serum you wafted out to me this morn-
ing was for the sixth virus we've been socked with
in the last two weeks. Soon as our boys whip up
something to knock out one, another takes its place.
Ifs always worse than the one before. We've lost 25
percent of our population already and this last virus
is a beaut. I want two top germdogs out here on the
double and about three patrol squadrons. We're fiat
on our backs now. I doubt our friends will hover

around, dousing us with nasty bugs much longer.
They're going to start blowing holes in us any minute
now. So sort of push the word along to Earth, will
you, sweetheart? And get us some heavy support!

I'll relay, naturally. But why don't you send direct?

To whom? You're the only one I can hear.

Your isolation won't last much longer if I know my
bosses.

You may know your bosses, but you don't know
me.

That can always be arranged.

This is no time for flirting. Get that message
through for me like a good girl.

Which message?

The one I just gave you.

That old one? They say you can have two germ-
dogs in the morning as soon as we clear Jupiter. But
Earth says no squadrons. No armed attack.

You can double-talk too, huh? You're talented. But
the morning does us no good. Now is when we need
them. Can't you sling them . . . no, they might leave
a few important atoms or something in Jupiter's mass.
But I've got to have some pretty potent help, and if
six viruses don't constitute armed attack, what does?

Missiles constitute armed attack, the Rowan said
primly.

I'll notify my friends up there. Missiles would be
preferable. Them 1 can see, I need those germdogs
now. Can't you turn your sweet little mind to a solu-
tion?

As you mentioned, it's after hours.

By the Horsehead, woman! the drawl was replaced
by a cutting mental roar. My friends are dying!

Look, after hours here means we're behind Jupiter
... But. .. Wait! How deep is your range?

I don't honestly know. And doubt crept into the
bodiless voice in their minds.

"Ackerman." The Rowan turned to her station-
master.

"I've been listening."

Hang on, Deneb, I've got an idea. I'll deliver your
germdogs. Open to me in half an hour.

The Rowan whirled on Ackerman. "I want my

shell." Her brilliant eyes were flashing and her face
was alight. "Afra!"

The station's T-4, a handsome yellow-eyed Capellan,
raised himself from the chair in which he'd been qui-
etly watching her. Afra was second in command of the
station.

"Yes, Rowan?"

Abruptly she realized that her mental conversation
with the Denebian had been heard by all the others.
Her fleeting frown was replaced by the miraculous
smile that always disconcerted Ackerman with its hint
of suppressed passion. She looked at each of the men,
bathing them in that smile.

"I want to be launched, slowly, over Jupiter's
curve," she said to Afra. Ackerman switched up the
dynamos, Bill Powers punched for her special shell to
be deposited on the launching rack. "Real slow, Afra.
Then I'll want to draw heavy." She took a deep breath.
Like all Primes, she was unable to launch herself
through space. Her initial trip from Altair to Callisto
had almost driven her mad with agoraphobia. Only
by the exercise of severe self-discipline was she able
to take her specially opaque shell a short way off
Callisto.

She took another deep breath and disappeared
from the station. Then she was beside the launcher.
She settled daintily into the shock couch of the shell.
The moment the lock whistle shut off, she could feel
the shell moving gently, gently away from Callisto.
She could sense Afra's reassuring mental touch. Only
when the shell had swung into position over Jupiter's
great curve did she reply to the priority call coming
from Earth Central.

Now what the Billy blue blazes are you doing,
Rowan? The voice of Reidinger, the FT & T Central
Prime, cracked across the void. Have you lost what's
left of your precious mind?

She's doing me a favor, Deneb said, unexpectedly
joining them.

Who'n hell're you? demanded Reidinger. Then, in
shocked surprise, Deneb! How'd you get out there?

Wishful thinking. Hey, push those germdogs to my
pretty friend here, huh?

10

Now, wait a minute! You're going a little too
far, Deneb. You can't burn out my best prime with
an unbased send like this.

Oh, I'll pick up midway. Like those antibiotics this
morning.

Deneb, what's this business with antibiotics and
germdogs? What're you cooking up out there in that
heathenish hole?

Oh, we're merely fighting a few plagues with one
hand and keeping thirty bogey ET's upstairs. Deneb
gave them a look with his vision at an enormous
hospital, a continuous stream of airborne ambulances
coming in: at crowded wards, grim-faced nurses and
doctors, and uncomfortable high piles of sheeted still
figures.

Well, I didn't realize. All right, you can have any-
thing you want--within reason. But I want a full re-
port, said Reidinger.

And patrol squadrons?

Reidinger's tone changed to impatience. You've ob-
viously got an exaggerated idea of our capabilities.
I can't mobilize patrol squadrons like that! There was
a mental snap of fingers.

Would you perhaps drop a little word in the C.O.C's
ear? Those ET's may gobble Deneb tonight and go
after Terra tomorrow.

I'll do what I can, of course, but you colonists
agreed to the risks when you signed up. The ET's
were probably hoping for a soft touch. You're show-
ing them different. They'll give up and get--

You're all heart, said Deneb.

Reidinger was silent for a moment. Then he said,
Germdogs sealed, Rowan; Pick 'em up and throw 'em
out, and signed off.

Rowan--that's a pretty name, said Deneb.

Thanks, she said absently. She had followed along
Reidinger's initial push, and picked up the two per-
sonnel carriers as they materialized beside her shell.
She pressed into the station dynamos and gathered
strength. The generators whined and she pushed out.
The carriers disappeared.

They're coming in. Rowan. Thanks a lot.

A passionate and tender kiss was blown to her

across eighteen light-years of space. She tried to fol-
low after the carriers and pick up his touch again, but
he was no longer receiving.

She sank back in her couch. Deneb's sudden ap-
pearance had disconcerted her completely. All of the
Primes were isolated in their high talents, but the
Rowan was more alone than any of the others.

Siglen, the Altairian Prime who had discovered the
Rowan as a child and carefully nursed her talent into
its tremendous potential, was the oldest Prime of all.
The Rowan, a scant twenty-three now, had never got-
ten anything from Siglen to comfort her except old-
fashioned platitudes. Betelgeuse Prime David was
madly in love with his T-2 wife and occupied with
raising a brood of high-potential brats. Although
Reidinger was always open to the Rowan, he also had
to keep open every single minute to all the vast prob-
lems of the FT & T system. Capella was available
but so mixed up herself that her touch aggravated the
Rowan to the point of fury.

Reidinger had tried to ease her devastating loneli-
ness by sending up T-3's and T-4's like Afra, but she
had never taken to any of them. The only male T-2
ever discovered in the Nine-Star League had been a
confirmed homosexual. Ackerman was a nice, barely
talented guy, devoted to his wife. And now, on Deneb,
a T-l had emerged, out of nowhere--and so very,
very far away.

Afra, take me home now, she said, very tired.
Afra brought the shell down with infinite care.
After the others had left the station, the Rowan lay
for a long while on her couch in the personnel carrier.
In her unsleeping consciousness, she was aware that
the station was closing down, that Ackerman and the
others had left for their homes until Callisto once more
came out from behind Jupiter's titan bulk. Everyone
had some place to go, except the Rowan who made it
all possible. The bitter, screaming loneliness that over-
came her during her off hours welled up--the frustra-
tion of being unable to go off-planet past Afra's sharply
limited range--alone, alone with her two-edged talent.
Murky green and black swamped her mind until she

remembered the blown kiss. Suddenly, completely, she
fell into her first restful sleep in two weeks.

Rowan. It was Deneb's touch that roused her. Ro-
wan, please wake up.

Hmmmm? Her sleepy response was reluctant.

Our guests are getting rougher . . . since the germ-
dogs . . . whipped up a broad spectrum antibiotic . . .
that phase . . . of their attack failed ... so now they're
. . . pounding us . . . with missiles . . . give my re-
gards to your space-lawyer friend . .. Reidinger.

You're playing pitch with missiles? The Rowan came
awake hurriedly. She could feel Deneb's contact cutting
in and out as he interrupted himself to catch incoming
missiles and fling them back.

/ need backup help, sweetheart, like you and. . . any
twin sisters . . . you happen . . . to have . . . handy.
Buzz over ... here, will you?

Buzz? What? I can't go there!

Why not?

I can't! I can't f The Rowan moaned, twisting against
the web of the couch.

But I've got . . . to . . . have . . . help, he said and
faded away.

Reidinger! The Rowan's call was a scream.

Rowan, I don't care if you are a T-l. There are cer-
tain limits to my patience and you've stretched every
blasted one of them, you little white-haired ape!

His answer scorched her. She blocked automatically
but clung to his touch. Someone has got to help Deneb!
she cried, transmitting the Mayday.

What? He's joking!

How could he, about a thing like that!

Did you see the missiles? Did he show you what he
was actually doing?

No, but I felt him thrusting. And since when does
one of us distrust another when he asks for help.

Since when? Reidinger's reply crackled across space.
Since Eve handed Adam a rosy round fruit and said
"eat." And exactly since Deneb's never been integrated
into the prime network. We can't be sure who or what
he is--or exactly where he is. I don't like this taking

everything at his word. Try and get him back for me to

hear.

I can't reach him! He's too busy lobbing missiles

spaceward.

That's a hot one! Look, he can tap any other poten-
tials on his own planet. That's all the help he needs.

But ...

But me no buts and leave me alone. I'll play cupid

only so far. Meanwhile I've got a company--a league--
to hold together. Reidinger signed off with a backlash
that stung. The Rowan lay in her couch, bewildered
by Reidinger's response. He was always busy, always
gruff. But he had never been stupidly unreasonable.
While out there, Deneb was growing weaker ...

Callisto was clear of Jupiter and the station was
operating again. Incoming cargoes were piling up on
the launchers. But there was no outgoing traffic. Ten-
sion and worry hung over the station.

"There must be something we can do for him . . .
something," the Rowan said, choked with tears.

Afra looked down at her sadly and compassionately,

and patted her frail shoulder.

"What? Not even you can reach all the way out to
him. Patrol Squadrons are needed by what you've said,
but we can't send them. Did you ask him if he's tried to
find help on his own planet?"                      "-.

"He needs Prime help and--"

"You're all tied to your little worlds with the um-
bilical cord of space-fear," Afra finished for her, a
blunt summation of the problem that made her wince
for her devastating inability.

Kerrist! The radar warning! Ackerman's mental

shout startled both of them.

Instantly the Rowan linked her mind to his as Acker-

man plunged toward the little-used radar screen. As
she probed into space, she found the intruder, a highly
powered projectile, arrowing in from behind Uranus.
Guiltily she flushed, for she ought to have detected it

away beyond the radar's range.

There was no time to run up the idling dynamos.

The projectile was coming in too fast.

I want a wide-open mind from everyone on this
moon! The Rowan's broadcast was inescapable. She
14

felt the surge of power as forty-eight talents on Cal-
listo, including Ackerman's ten-year-old son, lowered
their shields. She picked up their power--from the least
12 to Afra's sturdy 4--sent her touch racing out be-
yond Jupiter, and reached the alien bomb. She had to
wrestle for a moment with the totally unfamiliar mo-
lecular structure of its constituents. Then, with her
augmented energy, it was easy enough to deactivate the
trigger and then scatter the fissionables from the war-
head into Jupiter's seething mass.

She released the others who had joined her and fell
back into the couch.

"How in hell did that thing find us?" Afra asked
from the chair in which he had slumped.

She shook her head wearily. Without the dynamos,
there had been no surge of power to act as the initial
carrier wave for her touch. Even with the help of the
others--and all of them put together didn't add up to
one-third the strength of another Prime--it had been a
wearying exercise. She thought of Deneb--alone, with-
out an FT & T Station to assist him--doing this again,
and again, and again--and her heart twisted.

Warm up the dynamos, Brian--there'll be more of
those missiles.

Afra looked up, startled.

Prime Rowan of Callisto Station alerting Earth Prime
Reidinger and all other primes! Prepare for possible
attack by fissionable projectiles of alien origin. Alert
all radar watch stations and patrol forces. She lost her
official calm and added angrily. We've got to help
Deneb now--we've got to! Ifs no longer an isolated ag-
gression against an outlying colony. Ifs a concerted
attack on our heart world. Ifs an attack on every prime
in the nine-star league.

Rowan! Before Reidinger got more than her name
into her mind, she opened to him and showed the five
new projectiles driving toward Callisto. For the love of
little apples! Reidinger's mind radiated incredulity.
What has our little man been stirring up?

Shall we find out? Rowan asked with deadly sweet-
ness.

Reidinger transmitted impatience, fury, misery and
then shock as he gathered her intention.
I?

Your plan won't work. Ifs impossible. We can't
merge minds to fight. All of us are too egocentric. Too
unstable. We'd burn out, fighting each other.

You, me, Altair, Betelgeuse and Capella. We can do
it. If I can deactivate one of those hell missiles with
only forty-eight minor talents and no power for help,
five primes plus full power ought to be able to turn
the trick. We can knock the missiles off. Then we can
merge with Deneb to help him, that'll make six of us.
Show me the ET who could stand up to such a counter-
assault!

Look girl, Reidinger replied, almost pleading, We
don't have his measure. We can't just merge--He could
split us apart, or we could burn him up. We don't know
him. We can't gauge a telepath of unknown ability.

You'd better catch that missile coming at you, she
said calmly. 1 can't handle more than ten at a time and
keep up a sensible conversation.

She felt Reidinger's resistance to her plan weaken-
ing. She pushed the advantage. If Deneb's been han-
dling a planet-wide barrage, that's a pretty good indica-
tion of his strength. I'll handle the ego-merge because I
damned well want to. Besides, there isn't any other
course open to us now, is there?
We could launch patrol squadrons.
We should have done that the first time he asked.

It's too late now.

Their conversation was taking the briefest possible
time and yet more missiles were coming in. All the
Prime stations were under bombardment.

All right, Reidinger said in angry resignation, and
contacted the other Primes.

No, no, no! You'll burn her out--burn her out, poor
thing! Old Siglen from Altair babbled. Let us stick to
our last--we dare not expose ourselves, no, no, no! The
ET's would attack us then.

Shut up, Ironpants, David said.

Shoulder to the wheel, you old wart, Capella chimed
in waspishly. Hit hard first, that's safest.

Look, Rowan, Reidinger said. Siglen's right. He

could burn you out.
I'll take the chance.

16

Damn Deneb for starting all this! Reidinger didn't
quite shield his aggravation.
We've got to do it. And now!

Tentatively at the outset, and then with stunningly
increased force, the unleashed power of the other FT
& T Primes, augmented by the mechanical surge of the
five stations' generators, was forced through the Rowan.
She grew, grew and only dimly saw the puny ET bom-
bardment swept aside like so many mayflies. She grew,
grew until she felt herself a colossus, larger than omi-
nous Jupiter. Slowly, carefully, tentatively, because the
massive power was braked only by her slender con-
scious control, she reached out to Deneb.

She spun on, in grandeur, astounded by the limitless
force she had become. She passed the small black
dwarf that was the midway point. Then she felt the
mind she searched for; a tired mind, its periphery
wincing with weariness but doggedly persevering its
evasive actions.

Oh, Deneb, Deneb, you're still intact! She was so re-
lieved, so grateful to find him fighting his desperate
battle that they merged before her ego could offer even
a token resistance. She abandoned her most guarded
self to him and, with the surrender, the massed power
she held flowed into him. The tired mind of the man
grew, healed, strengthened and blossomed until she
was a mere fraction of the total, lost in the greater part
of this immense mental whole. Suddenly she saw with
his eyes, heard with his ears and felt with his touch, was
immersed in the titanic struggle.

The greenish sky above was pitted with mushroom
puffs, and the raw young hills around him were scarred
with deflected missiles. Easily now, he was turning
aside the warheads aimed at him.

Let's go up there and find out what they are, the
Reidinger segment said. Now!

Deneb approached the thirty mile-long ships. The
mass-mind took indelible note of the intruders. Then,
off-handedly, Deneb broke the hulls of twenty-nine of
the ET ships, spilling the contents into space. To the
occupants of the survivor, he gave a searing impression
of the Primes and the indestructability of the worlds in
this section of space. With one great heave, he threw

17

the lone ship away from his exhausted planet, set it
hurtling farther than it had come, into uncharted black
immensity.

He thanked the Primes for the incomparable compli-
ment of an ego-merge and explained in a millisecond
the tremendous gratitude of his planet, based on all
that Denebians had accomplished in three generations
which had been so nearly obliterated and emphasized
by their hopes for the future.

The Rowan felt the links dissolving as the other
Primes, murmuring withdrawal courtesies, left him.
Deneb caught her mind fast to his and held on. When
they were alone, he opened all this thoughts to her, so
that now she knew him as intimately as he knew her.

Sweet Rowan. Look around you. It'll take a while
for Deneb to be beautiful again but we'll make it love-
lier than ever. Come live with me, my love.

The Rowan's wracked cry of protest reverberated
cruelly in both naked minds.

/ can't! I can't! She cringed against her own outburst
and closed off her inner heart so that he couldn't see
the pitiful why. In the moment of his confusion, she
retreated back to her frail body, and beat her fists
hopelessly against her thighs.

Rowan! came his cry. Rowan, I love you.

She deadened the outer fringe of her perception to
everything and curled forward in her chair. Afra, who
had watched patiently over her while her mind was far
away, touched her shoulder.

Oh, Afra! To be so close to love and so far away.
Our minds were one. Our bodies are forever separate.
Deneb! Deneb!

The Rowan forced her bruised self into sleep. Afra
picked her up gently and carried her to a bed in a room
off the station's main level. He shut the door and tip-
toed away. Then he sat down, on watch in the corridor
outside, his handsome face dark with sorrow, his yellow
eyes blinking away moisture.

Afra and Ackerman reached the only possible con-
clusion: the Rowan had burned herself out. They'd
have to tell Reidhiger. Forty-eight hours had elapsed
since they'd had a single contact with her mind. She

18

had not heard, or had ignored, their tentative requests
for her assistance. Afra, Ackerman, and the machines
could handle some of the routing and freighting, but
two liners were due in and that required her. They
knew she was alive but that was all: her mind was
blank to any touch. At first, Ackerman had assumed
that she was recuperating. Afra had known better and,
for that forty-eight hours, he'd hoped fervently that she
would accept the irreconcilable situation.

"I'll run up the dynamos," Ackerman said to Afra
with a reluctant sigh, "and we'll tell Reidinger."

Well, where's Rowan? Reidinger asked. A moment's
touch with Afra told him. He, too, sighed. We'll just
have to rouse her some way. She isn't burned out;

that's one mercy.

Is it? replied Ackerman bitterly. // you'd paid atten-
tion to her in the first place ...

Yes, I'm sure, Reidinger cut him off brusquely. If
I'd gotten her light of love his patrol squadrons when
she wanted me to, she wouldn't have thought of merging
with him mentally. I put as much pressure on her as I
dared. But when that cocky young rooster on Deneb
started lobbing deflected ET missiles at us ... I hadn't
counted on that development. At least we managed to
spur her to act. And off-planet at that. He sighed. /
was hoping that love might make at least one prime

fly.

Whaaa-at? Afra roared. You mean that battle was
staged?

Hardly. As I said, we hadn't anticipated the ET.
Deneb presumably had only a mutating virus plague to
cope with. Not ET.

Then you didn't know about them?

Of course not! Reidinger sounded disgusted. Oh,
the original contact with Deneb for biological assistance
was sheer chance. I took it as providential, an oppor-
tunity to see if I couldn't break the fear psychosis we
all have. Rowan's the youngest of us. If I could get her
to go to him--physically--I failed. Reidinger's resig-
nation saddened Afra, too. One didn't consider the
Central Prime as a fallible human. Love isn't as strong
as it's supposed to be. And where I'll get new Primes if

19

/ can't breed 'em, I don't know. I'd hoped that Rowan
and Deneb ...

As a matchmaker...

/ should resign ...

Afra cut the contact abruptly as the door opened,
admitting the Rowan, a wan, pale, very quiet Rowan.

She smiled apologetically. "I've been asleep a long
time."

"You had a tiring day," Ackennan said gently.

She winced and then smiled to ease Ackerman's
instant concern. "I still am, a little." Then she frowned.
"Did I hear you two talking to Reidinger just now?"

"We got worried," Ackennan replied. "There're two
liners coming in, and Afra and I just plain don't care to
handle human cargo, you know."

The Rowan gave a rueful smile. "I know. I'm all
set." She walked slowly up the stairs to her tower.

Ackerman shook his head sadly. "She sure has taken
it hard."

Her chastened attitude wasn't the relief that her staff
had once considered it might be. The work that day
went on with monotonous efficiency, with none of the
byplay and freakish temperament that had previously
kept them on their toes. The men moved around auto-
matically, depressed by this gently tragic Rowan. That
might have been one reason why no one noticed par-
ticularly when, toward the very end of the day, the
young man came in. Only when Ackerman rose from
his desk for more coffee did he notice him sitting there
quietly.

"You new?"

"Well, yes. I was told to see the Rowan. Reidinger
signed me on in his office late this morning." He spoke
pleasantly, rising to his feet slowly and ending his ex-
planation with a smile. Fleetingly Ackerman was re-
minded of the miracle of the Rowan's sudden smiles
that hinted at some incredible treasure of the spirit.
This man's smile was full of uninhibited, magnetic
vigor, and the brilliant blue eyes danced with good
humor and friendliness.

Ackerman found himself grinning back like a fool,
and shaking the man's hand stoutly.

"Mightly glad to know you. What's your name?"

20

"Jeff Raven. I just got in from--"

"Hey, Afra, want you to meet Jeff Raven. Here, have
a coffee. A little raw on the walk up from the freight-
ing station, isn't it? Been on any other Prime stations?"

"As a matter of fact..."

Toglia and Loftus had looked around from their
computers to the recipient of such unusual cordiality.
They found themselves as eager to welcome this mag-
netic stranger. Raven graciously accepted the coffee
from Ackerman, who instantly proffered cigarettes.
The stationmaster had the feeling that he must give
this wonderful guy something else, it had been such a
pleasure to provide him with coffee.

Afra looked quietly at the stranger, his calm yellow
eyes a little clouded. "Hello," he said in a rueful mur-
mur.

Jeff Raven's grin altered imperceptibly. "Hello," he
replied, and more was exchanged between the two men
than a simple greeting.

Before anyone in the station quite realized what was
happening, everyone had left his post and gathered
around Raven, chattering and grinning, using the sim-
plest excuse to touch his hand or shoulder. He was
genuinely interested in everything said to him, and
although there were twenty-three people vying anx-
iously to monopolize his attention, no one felt slighted.
His reception seemed to envelop them all.

What the hell is happening down there? asked the
Rowan with a tinge of her familiar irritation. Why ...

Contrary to all her previously sacred rules, she ap-
peared suddenly in the middle of the room, looked
about wildly. Raven touched her hand gently.

"Reidinger said you needed me," he said.

"Deneb?" Her body arched to project the astounded
whisper. "Deneb? But you're . . . you're here! You're
here!"

He smiled tenderly and drew his hand across her
shining hair. The Rowan's jaw dropped and she burst
out laughing, the laughter of a supremely happy care-
free girl. Then her laughter broke off in a gasp of pure
terror.

How did you get here?

Just came. You can, too, you know.

21

No, no, I can't. No T-l can. The Rowan tried to
free herself from his grasp as if he were suddenly re-
pulsive.

/ did, though. His gentle insistence was unequivoca-
ble. Ifs only a question of rearranging atoms. Why
should it matter whose they are?

Oh, no, no ...

"Did you know," Raven said conversationally, speak-
ing for everyone's benefit "that Siglen of Altair gets
sick just going up and down stairs?" He looked straight
at the Rowan. "You remember that she lives all on
one floor? Ever wondered why all her furniture has
short legs, Rowan?"

The girl shook her head, her eyes wonderingly wide.

"No one ever stopped to ask why, did they? I did.
Seemed damned silly to me when I met the woman.
Siglen's middle ear reacts very badly to free-fall. She
was so miserably sick the first time she tried moving
herself anywhere, she went into a trauma about it. Of
course, it never occurred to her to find out why. So she
went a little crazy on the subject, and who trained all
the other Primes?"

"Siglen ... Oh, Deneb, you mean? ..."

Raven grinned. "Yes, I do. She passed on the
trauma to every one of you. The Curse of Talent! The
Great Fear! The great bushwah! But agoraphobia, or
a middle-ear imbalance, is not a stigma of Talent.
Siglen never trained me." He laughed with wicked
boyish delight and opened his mind to the Rowan.
Warmth and reassurance passed between them. Her
careful conditioning began to wither in that warmth.
Her eyes shone.

Now come live with me and be my love. Rowan.
Reidinger says you can commute from here to Deneb
every day.

"Commute?" She said it aloud, conscious of the over-
all value of Siglen's training, but already questioning
every aspect.

"Certainly," Jeff said, approving her thoughts.
"You're still a working T-l under contract to FT & T.
And so, my love, am I."

"I guess I dp know my bosses, don't I?" she said
with a chuckle.

22

"Well, the terms were fair. Reidinger didn't haggle
for a second after I walked into his private office at
eleven this morning."

"Commuting to Callisto?" the Rowan repeated
dazedly.

"All finished here for the day?" Raven asked Acker-
man, who shook his head after a glance at the launch-
ing racks.

"C'mon, gal. Take me to your ivory tower and we'll
finish up in a jiffy. Then we'll go home. With two of
us working in our spare time, Deneb'll be put to rights
in no time... And when we've finished that...

Jeff Raven smiled wickedly at the Rowan and
pressed her hand to his lips in the age-old gesture of
courtliness. The Rowan's smile answered his with
blinding joy.

The others were respectfully silent as the two Tal-
ents made there way up the stairs to the once-lonely
tower.

Afra broke the tableau by taking the burning ciga-
rette from Ackerman's motionless hand. He took a
deep drag that turned his skin a deeper green. It wasn't
the cigarette smoke that caused his eyes to water so
profusely.

"Not that that pair needs much of our help, people,"
he said, "but we can add a certain flourish and speed
them on their way."

23"

A Meeting of Minds

IOTA AUMGAE WAS A BLAZE AT ZENITH, TO

Damia's left, glinting off her tiny personal capsule.
Capella's light, from the right nadir, was a pulsing
blue-white. Starlight from the Milky Way bathed her,
too, but the only sound was her even breathing as she
allowed her mind to open fully to the mindless, echo-
freedom of deep space.

It was as if she could feel the separate cerebral

muscles relaxing, expanding, just as her tall slender
body went gradually limp. But it was primarily the
mental relief that Damia sought so far away from her
control Tower at the Federated Telepath and Teleport
installation on Aurigae. It was the utter peace of deep
space she required as anodyne to the constant demands
of her position as Psionic Prime, responsible for the
flow of commerce and communication in this Sector
of Federated Worlds, the Nine-Star League. She was
young, true, barely twenty; but age is relative, partic-
ularly when the need is great, and her mental talents
were unusually mature. Furthermore, she was of the
Raven Clan, bom into a tremendously talented family,
carefully indoctrinated and trained to assume an execu-
tive role as the influence of Federated Worlds ex-
panded into new star systems, needing more Prime

Talents.
Occasionally, even her young mind felt the strain

and required respite from the insistent murmur of
broadcasting thoughts that beat, beat, beat against hers:

little minds which could not conceive the forces that
Damia, Aurigan Prime, could marshall in gestalt with
the mighty dynamos of the Tower.
24

With a flick of a finger, Damia screened out the
overbrilliant starlight and opened her eyes. The sof-
tened stargleams, points of gem fire in the black of
space, winked and pulsed at her. Idly she identified the
familiar patterns they made, these silent friends.
Somehow the petty grievances that built up inside her
were gently dispersed as the overwhelming imperson-
ality of cold nothingness brought them into proper per-
spective.

She could even forget her present preoccupation for
a moment: forget how lonely she was; how she envied
her brother, Larak, his loving, lovely wife and their
new son; envied her mother the company of her hus-
band and children; envied her Afra's . ..

Afra! What right had he to interfere, to reprimand
her! His words still seared. "You've been getting an
almighty huge vicarious charge out of peeking in on
Larak and Jenna. Scared Jenna out of her wits, lurking
in her mind while she was in labor! You leave them
both alone!"

She was forced to admit herself at fault. But how
had Afra known? Unless Larak had told him. She
sighed. Yes, Larak would have known she was eaves-
dropping. Though he was the only T-3 among her
brothers and sisters, he had always been extremely
sensitive to her mind touch. And she and Larak could
always overwhelm any combination of the others, even
if Jeran, Cera, and Ezro, all T-ls, teamed up against
them. Somehow, she switched mental gears, doubling
the capability of other minds within her focus.

But it had humiliated her to be reamed by Afra.
Well, better by that yellow-eyed, green-skinned T-4
Capellan than her father, acting in his capacity as Earth
Prime. She rather hoped that her father had not learned
of her breach of T- etiquette.

Odd, though, she hadn't heard as much as a whisper
from Afra since then. It must be over seven months.
He had listened in as she'd apologized to both Jenna
and Larak, and then silence. He couldn't be that angry
with her.

Damia diverted her thoughts away from Afra, and
went through the ritual of muscular relaxation, of men-
tal wipeout. She must be back in the Tower very soon.

2?

In a way, the fact that she could handle Prime duties
with no higher ratings than a T-6 to assist had certain
disadvantages. The Tower staff could handle only rou-
tine, planetary traffic, but she had to be on hand for all
interstellar telepathic and teleportation commerce.

It would be wonderful to have a T-3 with her:

someone who could understand. Not someone ... be
honest with yourself out here in space, Damia. Some
man. Only men shy away from you as if you'd devel-
oped Lynx-sun cancers. And the only other unmarried
Prime was her own brother, Jeran. Come to think
about Jeran, the smug tone in his recent mind-touches
as they exchanged cargoes and messages between
Deneb and Auriga undoubtedly meant that he had
found a likely mate, too.

It was no consolation to Damia that her mother had
known and warned her of this intense, feminine loneli-
ness. But Jeff Raven had appeared to breach the
Rowan's tower and the Rowan had at least had Afra's
company. ..

Afra! Why did her mind keep returning to him?
Damia realized that she was grinding her teeth. She
forced herself through the rituals again, sternly making
specific thought dissipate until her mind drifted. And,
in the course of that aimless drifting, an aura impinged
on her roving consciousness. Startled--for nothing
could be coming in from that far quarter of space--she
tightened her mind into a seeking channel.

An aura. A mere wisp of the presence of something.
Something . .. alien!
Alien! Damia recomposed herself. She disciplined

her mind to a pure, clear, uncluttered shaft. She

touched the aura. Recognition of her touch, retreat,

return.
The aura was undeniably alien, but so faint that she

would have doubted its existence except that her finely

trained mind was not given to error.
An exultation as hot as lust caused her blood to

pound in her ears. She was not wrong. The trace was

there.
Taking a deep breath, she directed an arrow-fine

mental shout across the light-years, nadirward, to the

26

Earth Prime FT & T Tower, high above the Grand
Canyon.

Alien spacecraft approaching our galaxy intercepting
at Auriga, she informed Jeff Raven.

Damia, control, damn it, girl. Control, Jeff replied,
keeping his own mental roar within tolerable bounds.

Sorry, Damia amended briefly without real contri-
tion. Her father was capable of deflecting her most
powerful thrust.

You are on a tight focus, I trust, with news like
this? he asked in an official tone.

Of course, I am. But my first duty is to report to
Earth Prime, isn't it?

Don't come over sweet innocence on me, missy.
Now, give your full report.

Can't give a full one. The alien aura is barely de-
tectible, four light-years galactic north-northeast. Sec-
tor 2. I arrowed in once I heard the trace and it
responded.

It responded--

The aura.

You reported a spacecraft.

Father, how else could anything cross the intergalac-
tic sea?

My dear child, in our galaxy, we have encountered
many odd life forms that did not require light or oxy-
gen to exist.

I say, spacecraft. I touched it.

Damia? and Jeff's tone was suspicious. Where are
you?

I was only resting, she temporized, suddenly aware
that she was doing something not quite circumspect.

Resting is permitted. But how far are you from the
Tower? Jeff insisted.

A light-year.

With only a T-6 Station as control? Supposing,
daughter, something happened to you? Supposing that
alien aura decided to home in on you ...

Oh, Dad, if I can't read more than an aura of
Them, and they haven't changed position or rate since
I informed you, they sure as hell don't pose any threat
to me.

She carefully suppressed a giggle at her father's ex-

27

asperation. She very seldom got the better of either her
father or Afra--she erased that name and went on--
but it didn't keep her from trying.

All right, missy, show me, Jeff demanded, still se-
vere.

She allowed him to join her mind completely as she
led him out beyond the blaze of stars. She led him di-
rectly to the alien trace. The aura was palpable but so
far away that only the extraordinary perception of two
powerful minds could sense it.

/ caught anticipation, curiosity, Jeff told his daughter
thoughtfully as he withdrew from the tight focus. And
caution, too. Whatever it is, is approaching our galaxy.

I shall maintain a watch, Damia volunteered, unable
to conceal her intense excitement at this momentous
event.

Not at any time personally endangering yourself,
Prime, Jeff abjured her, coloring the official concern
with personal.

No, of course not. But I'd like to borrow Larak to
maintain an augmented watch.

Larak's training T-3s to augment old Gut-man on
Altair. The old man sleeps most of the time but he's
the only Prime we have for that Sector until Eva's
older, Jeff replied. I'll send you Afra. He'd be better
anyhow.

Because Afra has already touched those aliens you
and mother routed above Deneb twenty-odd years ago?
Damia laughed, covering up her reaction to Afra's
coming with a jab at her father's recall.

Jeff chuckled amiably, giving her credit for a deep
perception.

Well, I'd rather wait until Larak's free. 1 can just
hear mother screaming at being deprived of Afra.

Damia, Jeff's tone crackled with disapproval. That
is an irrational, childish and insulting remark. Repair
your attitude. His tone altered. If you hadn't, at one
time or another, intimidated every T-2, -3 and -4 in
the Federated Worlds, I could send someone else--

And matchmake into the bargain? She tinged her
thoughts with derision, and then advised smugly. Your
dynastic plans will bear better fruit with Jeran. Only
don't let him settle for anything less than a T-4.

28

That was score two for her, she decided as she felt
her father's startled pause.

You haven't been eavesdropping again, have you,
Damia?

She parried that surprise with a quick. After Afra
reamed me for that with Larak? Not bloody likely.

Oh, it was he who stopped you? Your mother
thought it was Isthia.

The trouble with telepaths is sometimes they think
too much, she remarked acidly, infuriated afresh to
realize that her mother, also, knew of that incident.

Damia! Jeff's tone was unusually severe. Your
mother is the only person in the galaxy who has any
inkling of your problems ...

Then why did she hand me over to Isthia to raise?
Damia flashed back without thinking.

Because, my darling daughter, you were without
doubt the most infuriating, incalcitrant, unmanageable
four-year-old. Your mother was too ill with her preg-
nancy to keep track of you blithely teleporting all over
the system. 1 sent you away, not your mother. It was
not her decision and she resisted it every step of the
way. I've told you that before. But you two are so
bloody much alike ...

Damia snorted. She was not the least bit like her
mother. There was absolutely no resemblance between
them. She was Jeff's daughter from her slender height
to her black hair and vivid blue eyes. Ezro, yes, and
Larak, too, took after the Rowan. But not she. Of
course, Damia had to admit, her mother had an ex-
ceedingly strong and diverse psionic talent or she
wouldn't be Callisto Prime, but Damia was just as
strong, and she had the added advantage of that ca-
talystic ability as well.

Well, Jeff was saying in a milder tone, you'll see it
one day, my dear, and I, for one, shall be immensely
relieved. Your mother and 1 love you very much and
we're damned proud of the way you've taken over your
official responsibilities on Auriga. Professionally I have
no quarrel with you.

Damia basked in her father's praise. He didn't give
it lightly.

// you were only able to relate more to the people

29

around you, he continued, spoiling the compliment,
then added briskly, I'll send Afra on directest. I can
trust his impartiality, and to Damia's amazement, her

father chuckled.

She stabbed at his mind to find the basis for the
amusement, but met a blankness as her father had
turned his mind to some other problem.

"Impartiality? Afra?" The sound of her own voice
in the little personal capsule startled her.

What on earth was that supposed to mean? Why
would Afra's impartiality be trusted--above hers--in
identifying or evaluating an alien aura?

But Afra was to come to Auriga.

After he had broken contact with Damia, Jeff did
not immediately turn to other problems. He mulled
over the subtler aspects of that vivid contact with his
daughter. Damia's mind was as brilliant as Iota
Aurigae, and about as stable as any active star's sur-
face. He had caught the edges of her skillfully shielded
reactions to several of his references. He was reas-
sured to note growing evidence of emotional maturity,
except where her mother and Afra were concerned.

Damia had unwittingly suppressed what Jeff recalled
most vividly about the day he had sent her away to
Isthia on Betelgeuse for fostering. It had been Afra
the four-year-old Damia had clung to, cried for, not
her mother. Jeff sighed. The decision to send Damia
to Isthia had been one of the hardest he had ever had
to make, personally and professionally. But Rowan had
been extremely ill during her pregnancy with Larak,
and Damia, coming early into her extraordinary men-
tal powers, had made life pure hell for everyone in the
Raven household: teleporting herself--and anything
her fancies seized upon--indiscriminately around the
system. Only Afra had any control over her, and he
had had to be at Callisto Tower.

Under Isthia's calm, unruffled discipline, Damia had
learned to control her waywardness. She became sin-
cerely fond of Isthia. Strange that it was the Rowan
whom Damia still blamed for that separation.

Rowan, Jeff called out to Callisto Tower, and sensed

30

that his wife was resting as the interchanges on Cal-
Usto's cargo decks filled from Earthside.

Her mind touched his gladly, with a delight that be-
lied the fact they had breakfasted together a few hours
earlier.

Open to me. Damia's made an alien contact. See it.

Alien? Near Damia? The fleeting maternal concern
was quickly supplanted by professional curiosity as the
Rowan scanned Jeff's recent experience beyond Auriga.
Of course, Afra can go. But why on earth would
Damia think Afra couldn't be reassigned as you see fit.
He often has, but it's true I never get on as well with
other T-3's.

Too true, Jeff replied teasingly, to divert Rowan
from scanning recent conversations too deeply, but if I
didn't know Afra as well as 1 do ...

Jeff Raven, there has never been a single thought be-
tween me and Afra that--

Jeff laughed and she sputtered at him indignantly.

Actually, she continued, thoughtfully, I'd be very re-
lieved to have Afra with Damia. I know how lonely it
must be for her . ..

If she hadn't been so heavy-handed with every other
high T young male, she wouldn't be lonely, Jeff said
briskly, before Rowan got started on how she had
failed her daughter. Now, is Afra in gestalt with you?

Right here. I'll leave you two men alone.

Refusing to placate her ruffled feelings, Jeff caressed
her with a very affectionate thought before he felt
Afra's mind touch his.

Are you sure you're only T-3? he asked, a little sur-
prised at the firmness in the Capellan's touch.

I'm in gestalt, after all, Afra replied, good-naturedly.
And, in the course of twenty-odd years in the presence
of the fine Raven touch, even a lowly T-3 learns a
few tricks. From the expression on the Rowan's face,
I'd hazard that Damia is being discussed. What's she
up to now?

Damia had just returned to Auriga when she heard
the Rowan giving the Tower official warning of the
transmission of a personal capsule.

31

Afra? Damia exclaimed, reaching back along her
mother's touch to Callisto.

Damia! Afra said wamingly but too late.

Without waiting for the Rowan to flip the capsule
halfway to Auriga, Damia blithely drew the carrier
directly from Callisto, ignoring her mother's stunned
and angry reaction to such an abuse of protocol.

She regretted her impulsive action almost imme-
diately. But Afra's capsule was opening and he was
swinging himself over the edge. She could not have
missed his trenchant disapproval if she'd been a mere
T-15. He stood up, looking down at her, the same
aloof, contained man. Now why, Damia wondered ir-
ritably, had she expected Afra to change? Had she?
And would Afra condescend to comment on those
changes in her?

She rose from her own capsule, instinctively stand-
ing very erect as if to minimize the differences in their
heights. Tall as she was, inches taller than her mother,
she came only to Afra's shoulder.

"You will apologize to your mother, Damia," Afra
said, his unexpected tenor speaking voice a curious
echo of his quiet mental tone. "Isthia taught you bet-
ter manners even if we never could."

"You've been trying to lately, though, haven't you?"
The retort came out before she could stop it. Would
Afra always have this effect on her?

He cocked his head to one side and regarded her
steadily. She sent a swift probe which he parried eas-
ily.

"You were distressing Jenna unnecessarily, Damia.
She appealed to me as the nearest male of her Clan,
and because she did not wish Jeff to know of your in-
discretion."

"She chose well." Damia was so appalled at the
waspishness of her tone that she extended her hand
toward him apologetically.

She could feel him throw up his mental barriers
and, for a second, she wondered if he might refuse
what was, after all, the height of familiarity between
telepaths. But his'hand rose smoothly to clasp hers,
lightly, warmly, leaving her with the essential cool-

32

green-comfortable-security that was the physical/men-
tal double-touch of him.

Then, with a one-sided smile, he bowed to indicate
he was flattered but allowed a recollection of her as
a nude baby on a bath towel to cross his public mind.

She made a face at him, and substituted Larak's
son. Afra blandly put "her" back on the towel be-
side her nephew.

"All right," she laughed, "I'll behave."

"About time," he said with an affable grin, and
looked beyond her to their surroundings.

He had seen Auriga in others' mind-eyes but the
amber sunlight was easier on his eyes than Earth's
bright yellow, so that Auriga was not a dark world to
him, but a restful one. The sweet-scented breeze sweep-
ing down from the high snowy mountain range was
lightly moist and the atmosphere had a high oxygen
content, exhilarating him.

"It's a lovely world you have here, Damia."

She smiled up at him, her blue eyes brilliant under
the fringes of long black lashes.

"It's a lovely young vigorous world. Come see
where I live," and she led the way from the landing
stage to her dwelling.

The house perched on the high plateau above the
noisy metropolis that was Auriga's major city, and
Damia's Sector Headquarters. Its randomly sprawling
newness had a vitality which the planned order of
Earth lacked. Afra found the sight stimulating.

"It is, isn't it?" Damia agreed, following his sur-
face thought. Then she directed his mind to her day's
discovery, giving tha experience exactly as it had hap-
pened to her. "And the touch is unlike anything I've
ever met."

"You certainly didn't expect it to be familiar, did
you?" Afra asked in dry amusement.

"Just because they come from another galaxy
doesn't mean they can't be humanoid," she replied.

Afra snorted in disgust and went into her main liv-
ing room.

"I'll fix your favorite protein," she volunteered in
one of her mercurial shifts.

"Oh, don't go to any trouble for me."

33

"No trouble at all." Mischievously, she allowed him
to see her reaching for supplies from his home world

light-years away.

"Always the thoughtful hostess," he said, graciously
inclining his head. "Have you estimated the alien's ar-
rival?"

"I'll know better when I've had a chance to judge
their relative speed," she said. "A day or two would

give me some idea."

He watched her at the homey duties. Like most
T-ls, she enjoyed manual work and performed the
daily housekeeping herself, without relying on mechan-
ical services most households considered necessities.
In a few minutes she set before him a perfectly cooked
attractively served meal which he greeted perfunc-
torily.

"Can't I ever impress you?" she asked, half wistful,

half sharp.

"Why should you want to?" he asked, affecting mild

surprise. "I knew you from your first incoherent

thought."

"Familiarity breeds contempt, huh?"

"Contempt, no. Understanding, yes. Particularly at
our levels. And, of course, confusion, wherever you
are," Afra replied. "Very good, just the way I like it,"
he added appreciatively, indicating his dinner.

Damia made a face at him across the table, and
with a deliberate disregard for T- manners, reached a
portion of the sauce-steeped meat into her mouth with-
out spilling a drop. When Afra continued to ignore
her, she sighed and picked up her fork.

"Shall I take over the regular workload, Damia, and

leave you free for surveillance?"

"We don't have a heavy traffic right now. It's be-
tween harvests in this system, and manufacturing is
slow for the next few months. The usual amount of

tourists, though."

"How have you covered your absences with the

staff?"

"Just told them I've been resting. I'll account for

your presence as a preliminary survey for FT & T.
Right? As if any 'of those lamebrains could 'search'
me," she concluded contemptuously.
34

"So true," Afra replied, indicating in his public
mind his professional respect for her.

She was not deaf to the irony and was about to re-
ply hotly, but went back to eating rather than give
him further satisfaction.

It was unprecedented, this contact with sentient life
from what was probably another galaxy, yet for all
her capriciousness, Damia had not permitted a hint of
panic or her own inner excitement to escape. In that
she heeded one of the basic tenets of her position.
Panic enough was fomented within the complex Fed-
erated Worlds in the normal course of power struggles,
revolutions, ecological problems, and pioneer exigen-
cies. By common consent, instantaneous communica-
tions between planets no longer meant instant hysteria
of worlds unconcerned with the emergency. Federated
World Government handled the reports of all local dis-
putes which were, by law, reported to them by FT & T
Primes. Interstellar political or natural disasters were
not added to the emotional burdens already suffered
by populations. Primes exercised the option to disperse
or retain reports which might affect minorities within
their jurisdiction, but digests of all communications
were, by law, available on request.

Damia propped her chin in her hands and looked
earnestly at Afra across the table. She sighed heavily.

"You were right to call me to task for 'tasting' Larak
and Jenna. But I did want to know what it would be
like to be in love and then bring forth a baby."

"And . . . ?"

"Apart from the pain, I guess it's rewarding enough."

"You don't sound too sure."

Damia cocked her head and traced an involved pat-
tern on the table with her index finger.

"It must be different to do it yourself, no matter how
deeply you scan."

A trace thought behind her shield, called forth by
her remark, sent through Afra a bolt of terror which he
barely managed to contain. She was unconsciously cen-
soring, and it had to do with the alien aura and with
her own desire for the experience of motherhood. But
trace thought it was, and he had only that one-
millisecond impression, tantalizing, terrorizing.

3?

"Why, Afra, why?" Damia continued, unaware of
the reaction she had produced in him, her own mind
absorbed in self-pity. She launched herself physically
from the table in one lightning move, and stood at the
window wall, her back as expressive of her frustration
and bitterness as her mind. "Why am I a loner? The
Rowan found Jeff, but where, when will I find some-
one?"

"Damia, you've met every psionic prospect Talent
above Class 7 in the Nine-Star League."

"Them," she dismissed those candidates scornfully.

"Young Nicos, the T-5 working with Jeran on
Deneb, was mighty taken with you. Calm down a
bit--"

"Nicos!" Damia's eyes flashed blue fire. "That post-
adolescent mess! Why, it'd be five or six years before
he's even presentable."

Afra was no stranger to such dismissals. He'd heard
many since the time Damia had begun to be interested
in the opposite sex as a precocious adolescent. There
had been times when he wished he had followed his
own deep-hidden desire. But he had given a great deal
of thought to the variables, and knew that he could
only wait. He knew how hard it must be for Damia to
watch others pairing off, achieving the enviable total
accord that telepaths enjoyed, and for which she was
so eager. Her very brilliance and beauty caused
many otherwise willing mates to shy away. Usually,
she would talk herself out of her mood, but tonight
there was a new undercurrent that was dangerous in
its intensity.

"Is that why you so eagerly await the arrival of
the aliens?" Afra said in a soft drawl, deliberately
leaching all emotion out of his words. "On the off
chance they're biologically compatible? Do you envi-
sion your soul mate winging across the void to you?"

She whirled to face him, her eyes wide with rage.

"Don't you taunt me, Afra," she said in a hoarse
whisper.

He inclined his head in apology.

"Better get some sleep, Damia," he said gently,
and gave her a little mental push toward her bedroom.

"You're right. I am tired, Afra, and excited, and

36

silly. It's just . . . just that sometimes I feel like noth-
ing more than a useful mental stevedore: not a person
at all. Then this happens . . . and I ... I have the fan-
tastic chance to establish communication with alien
minds ..."

Again Afra caught the unmistakable and uncon-
scious suppression of a thought within the maelstrom
of her weariness.

Damia turned on her heel and left the room. Afra
watched the sunset turn the plateau a deep tangerine,
then diminish in the east. Brooding over the evening's
conversation, he waited until the roiling activity of
Damia's mind subsided into the even beat of sleep.
Then he, too, went to bed. Carefully, just as he was
on the edge of sleep, he reinforced his mental screens
so that none of his longing for her would escape. He
wondered, in that honest interval between conscious-
ness and dreaming, if he would have enough strength
left to cope with a third generation of Raven women.

The next day they initiated the new routine. Damia
handled the long-distance items first. Then after the
incoming workload had been sorted out and there
were no more demands on her talent, she departed in-
to space, to "rest," leaving Afra to deal with the re-
maining tasks.

Although the function of a Prime was complex, a
two-minute mental briefing by Damia supplied Afra
with the background of immediate problems and all
the procedures peculiar to that station. The memory
bank would give any additional information. When the
focal talents of the gestalt were exchanged, not even
one-half a beat of the pulse of the Aurigean Sector
Headquarters was missed. The allocation of duties
pleased Afra because it. would give him the oppor-
tunity to use the gestalt of the Station to reach Jeff
without Damia knowing. She would be too busy "reach-
ing" for the alien touch to be aware of Afra. The tem-
porary breach of her trust in him was offset by the
absolving knowledge of its necessity.

In terms of intergalactic distances, the aliens ap-
proached at a snail's pace: by interstellar references,
faster than the speed of light. A week passed and then
one evening Damia returned from her daily "rest"

37

bursting with news. She moved from the landing area
right into the living room, where Afra was lounging.

"I made individual contact," she cried. "And what
a mind!" She was so excited that she didn't notice the
flare of jealousy which Afra couldn't suppress. "And
what a surprise he got," she went on.

From the moment she had entered, Afra had known

that the mind was male.

"A Prime talent?" he asked, counterfeiting a show

of genuine interest.

"I can't assess it. He's so ... different," she ex-
claimed, her eyes shining and her mental aura daz-
zling with her success. "He fades and then returns.
The distance is immense, and there isn't much def-
inition in the thoughts. I can only reach the surface."
Damia threw herself onto the long couch. "I'm ex-
hausted. I shall have to sleep before I can reach Jeff
with the news. I don't dare use the station."

Afra agreed readily, waiting until she relaxed into
sleep. Ethics aside, he tried to reach this experience
in her mind below the emotional level, only to find
himself overwhelmed by the subjective. Damia was
treating herself to a high emotional kick! Afra was
afraid for her, with a fear deeper than any he had
ever touched personally or vicariously. Afra withdrew
troubled. She had better calm down and start acting
like a Prime when she woke, instead of a giddy girl.
If she didn't, he'd push the panic button himself.

After several hours' sleep, Damia's mental pyrotech-
nics were calmer. She "reached" Jeff with a profes-
sional report of the contact, only just a trifle high.
When she had finished broadcasting, Jeff got a private
thought to Afra but Afra could only confirm Damia's
report. He did not yet comment on his vague fore-
bodings.

The next day, Damia tossed off her necessary work
as fast as she could, then went into space. And Afra
waited as he had been waiting for Damia for years.
She returned so shining from the second encounter,
Afra had to clamp an icy hold over his mind.

The third morning, as Damia sat in the control
tower, she worked' with such haste Afra reprimanded
her. She corrected herself, gaily, making far too light

of her mistake, and then, eagerly, she propelled her-
self out toward the rendezvous. When she returned
that evening so tired that she reeled into the living
room, Afra took command.

"I'm going with you tomorrow, Damia," he said
firmly.

"What for?" She sat bolt upright to glare at him.

"You forget that I have a direct order from Earth
Prime to check the aura of these aliens. You've no
way of knowing this isn't a reinvasion by the same
entities that attacked Deneb twenty years ago."

"Sodan said they'd had no previous contact with
any sentients," she said, half angry.

"Sodan?"

"That is how he identifies himself," she said with
smug complacency. She lay back on the couch, smiling
up at Afra.

It disturbed him to know that this entity had a
name. It made the alien seem too human. Nor could
Afra quite reason away the tenderness with which
Damia spoke that name.

"Good enough," Afra said, with an indifference he
didn't feel. "However, you don't need to introduce
me formally. All I need is to check on the aura. I'll
know in an instant if there's any familiarity. I won't
jeopardize his confidence in your touch. He'll never
know I've been there." Afra yawned.

"Why are you tired?"

"I've been stevedoring all day," he said with a ma-
licious grin.

The remark had the desired effect of infuriating
Damia. The very fact that he could so easily divert
her conclusively proved to Afra that her emotions
were unhealthily involved. It no longer mattered
whether this Sodan was of the race that Jeff and the
Rowan had fought. He was a menace in himself.

Somehow Afra got through the evening without a
hint of his inner absorption spilling over. Damia, re-
living the success of her day, wasn't listening to any-
thing but her own thoughts.

The next day, after the necessary work was com-
pleted, Damia and Afra both took to their personal
capsules. Afra followed Damia's thrust and held him-

self silently as she reached the area where she could
touch the aura of Sodan. Damia then linked Afra
and carried his mind to the alien ship. As soon as the
alien touch impinged on Afra's awareness, much was
suddenly clear to him: much seen, and worse, much

unseen.

What Damia could not, would not, or did not see

justified Afra's nagging presentiment of danger. Noth-
ing out of Sedan's mind was visible: and nothing be-
yond his public mind was touchable. The alien had a
very powerful brain. As a quiescent eavesdropper,
Afra could not probe, but he widened his own sensi-
tivity to its limit and the impressions he received were
as unreassuring as his increasingly stronger intuition

of disaster.

It was patent that this Sodan was not of the pre-
vious invasion species: that he had been traveling
for an unspecifiable length of time far in excess of

two Earth decades.

It would not occur to Damia that Afra would lin-
ger once he had established his facts. But Afra did
linger, discovering other disturbing things. Sedan's
mind, undeniably brilliant, was nevertheless aug-
mented. Afra couldn't perceive whether Sodan was
the focus for other minds on the ship or in gestalt with
the ship's power source. Straining to his limit without
revealing himself, Afra tried to pierce the visual
screen or, at least, the aural one. All he received was
a low stereo babble of mechanical activity, and the

bum of heavy elements.

Defeated, Afra withdrew, leaving Sodan and Damia

to exchange thoughts that he had to admit were the
ploys of courtship. He returned to Auriga and lay in
the Tower couch, summoning up the energy to call.
Jeff Raven had moved young Larak nearer to Auriga

to facilitate sub-rosa communications.
It was not, Afra assured himself, that Damia had

deliberately hidden anything in her reports to him-
self or to Jeff: she was unaware that her usually keen
perceptions were fuddled and distorted by her emo-
tional involvement:^ she who had prided herself on
her ability to assess dispassionately any emotionally

charged incident.

40

Larak, Afra called, drawing heavily on the gestalt
and projecting his own mental/physical concept of
Larak to aid him in reaching the mind.

Man, you're beat, Larak came back, sharp, clear

green.

Larak, relay back to Jeff that this Sodan...

It's got a name?

It's got more than that and Damia is responding on
a very high emotional level, Afra sighed heavily. Re-
lay back to Jeff that I want him and the Rowan to re-
main on call at all times to me. I consider this an
emergency. Get yourself, pushed out here as soon as
you can relay that message. I'll need you here so we
can get through to Prime when we need to without
going through Station or Damia.

Coming, Larak responded crisply.

Afra leaned back in the couch and flicked off the
generators, thanking the paradox that allowed Damia
to run a Station on low T ratings; she would be un-
able to catch what he had just transmitted.

He would have given much to have been able to
handle the Sodan mind by himself, without having to
call on other Primes. All through Damia's life, Afra
had been able to cope with her mercurial tempers and
to direct her restless energies. And though his recent
complete withdrawal from her had been painfully
calculated, it meant that now he could neither fur-
ther his cause, nor divert Damia from her headlong
immersion in romance. Nor was he able to chal-
lenge Sodan and remove that competition.

"Galloping gronites, you look like a rough ride on
a long ellipse comet," was Larak's cheery greeting
as he bounced into the Tower.

"Your description is remarkably apt," Afra replied
grimly, and gripped Larak's shoulder to convey the
one impression he had not included in the broadcast.

Love has touched our fair sister at last, huW. Larak
murmured sympathetically. And with a total alien.

A very dangerous alien, unfortunately, Afra added.
"There is fissionable material aboard, mighty heavy
stuff for a ship bound on an ostensibly peaceful ex-
ploratory mission. Heavy enough to suspect whoever

41

gave Sodan his mission knew our civilization is on an

advanced level."

"More's the pity," Larak agreed thoughtfully, perch-
ing on the edge of the console. "Could you sense any
communications with his own people?"

"Tremendous power source in the ship. Tremen-
dous, but by the mighty atom, Larak, you can't get
past the public mind. Anyhow, I couldn't. And Damia
hasn't." Afra rose, paced restlessly back and forth in

the narrow Tower.
"Then it's possible he has informed them of the

contact?"
"I can't tell."

Larak held Afra's glance, and then sighed.
"It'll be a shame to have to destroy him," he said

slowly.

"Ha! We'll be lucky if we can," Afra replied. "Oh,
yes, Larak, that mind is the equal, if not the superior,
of Damia's. It could destroy ... all of us."

"Then we must act quickly before any suspicion
leaks to Damia," Larak said in sudden resolution.

Together the two flicked on the generators and so-
berly presented to Jeff and the Rowan the action they

deemed advisable.

But are we sure the evasions are deliberate? Maybe
this alien is exercising caution? I would if I met a mind
in outer space, the Rowan said in argument. She met
absolute resistance to her position. Why can't we de-
stroy him then? Why must we ask her to do it? She
spoke as Damia's mother, not Callisto Prime.

For one thing, we can't reach that far without her.
Nor can we draw, as Damia can, without prearrange-
ment on other Talent reserves, Jeff replied. We'll
have to show her how dangerous Sodan is, he added,
disliking this as much as any of them.

Each day Damia returns to Auriga a little more tired
than the previous one, Afra said slowly. I suspect that
he realized he must drain her before she suspects his

intentions.

Playing with her? The Rowan was angry now.

Don't be silly, mother, Larak said derisively.

Not in that sense. Rowan, Afra answered her. ;

42

suspect Damia was as much a surprise to him as he
has been to her.

Hurry, Larak cautioned him. She's returning. And
boy, is she exhausted!

Afra suppressed a feeling of annoyance that the cu-
rious childhood link between Damia and Larak gave
him the edge in sensing Damia's return. He turned his
mind to the debate, as decision and strategy were set-
tled in the moment before Damia's capsule landed
back on Auriga.

"Larak. I thought I felt you near," she cried hap-
pily as she saw her brother, the picture of casual re-
laxation, perched on the edge of the console.

"Just thought? You usually know," he said, crow-
ing with boyish delight. "This alien sure has got you
wrapped up and tied like a present. See how the
mighty have fallen."

When Damia flushed, Larak roared with laughter.

"I've got to meet this guy," he said.

"I've always felt that I was building experience and
training for one special reason," Damia said, her eyes
shining, "and now I know what it is!"

"The whole Sector will know in a moment if you
don't lower your 'voice,'" Afra said, sharply, to give
Larak a chance to control the shock the boy was feel-
ing as he witnessed Damia's exultation.

Resentfully, Damia dampered her emotional out-
pouring.

"I suppose you arrived with an appetite like a
mule," she said sourly.

Larak's face was a study in innocent hurt.

"I'm a growing boy, and while you're out courting,
Afra's getting overworked, and leaner and hungrier."

Damia looked guiltily at Afra.

"You do look tired," she said with concern. "Let's
all push over to the house and have dinner. Larak,
why are you here?"

"Oh, Dad wants Afra to pinch-hit on Procyon. Two
high T's are down with one of the local viruses and
traffic is backing up. Say, what's this alien ship like?
Crew or full automation for a void trek?"

Her hand poised over the cooking dials, Damia
hesitated. She looked at her brother blankly.

43

"Oh, you men are all alike. Details, details!"
"Well, sure," Larak replied. "But if details like that

bore you, they fascinate me. I'll ask him myself."
"You can't reach that far!"
"I planned to hop a ride with you tomorrow."
Damia hesitated, looking for assistance from Afra,

who shrugged noncommittally.

"Oh, for glory's sake, Damia. This is no time to be

coy," her brother said.

"I'm not being coy!" she exploded. "It's just that...

just that..."

"Who're you kidding?" Larak wanted to know, let-
ting his temper rise with hers. "You're gone on this
guy, and how do you know he's even anything re-
sembling a man?"

"His is a true mind, brilliant and powerful," she

said haughtily.

"That's great for fireside chats, but no damned

good in bed."

Damia reddened, half with fury and indignation,
and half with sudden virginal embarrassment at her
brother's accurate thrust.

"You're insufferable. If it weren't for me, we
wouldn't have been warned at all."

"Warned?" Afra leapt on the choice of word. Per-
haps she was not as completely bedazzled as they'd

thought.

"Of this momentous meeting," she went on, obliv-
ious to the implication. "You've touched him, Afra.
Don't you agree?"

"That it's a brilliant mind? Yes," and Afra nodded

judiciously.

Damia caught his sour undertone. "Oh, you . . .
you're jealous, that's all." And then she frowned, look-
ing at Afra with sudden suspicion.

"Hey, you're letting my dinner bum," Larak said,

pointing.

"And you say that women gossip," Damia exclaimed,
quickly lifting two pans from the heat. "It's a mercy

nothing is burned."

They ate in strained silence, Larak and Afra con-
centrating hard to'maintain a convincing surface of
thought. They hardly needed to because Damia

44

went off into her own private reverie, ignoring them
completely.

"You may be infatuated with this Sodan," Larak
said, "but it doesn't affect your cooking. Doesn't even
taste scorched."

Too much a woman not to be pleased by even a
brother's praise, Damia relaxed.

"He isn't an advance scout for a second invasion
force, I gather," Larak addressed Afra.

"No. In the very brief touch I had," Afra replied
quickly, "he's been traveling much longer than
twenty years."

Larak whistled appreciatively, just as if he didn't
know this already.

"Did you take a look around at the details my
sweet sister is uninterested in?" he asked.

"No. There were no obvious visual images and I
was only concerned with recognition."

"He has eyes," Damia replied loyally. "We've dis-
cussed the concept of sight. You must take into con-
sideration that he is also the controller of the ship, and
the drain on his energies reaching me and managing
his crew and ship must be enormous. It certainly is
on me."

"Yeah. You need your beauty sleep--bad," said
Larak.

"I'd like to see you do half as well."

"Children! Cut it out!" Afra intervened authorita-
tively.

Larak and Damia glared at each other, but the long
habit of obeying Afra held.

"Both of you, get to bed," he added. "Snarling
at each other in the worst example of sibling rivalry
I've seen since you returned from Isthia's an opinion-
ated ten-year-old. Makes me wonder how your father
dared put you in as Aurigan Prime."

"If there's anything that annoys me more than
Larak acting fraternal, it's you, Afra, making like the
older generation." She spoke coolly, but her flare of
temper had subsided.

Afra shrugged, relieved that his diversion had
worked before Larak inadvertently showed Damia
why he was probing these particular areas.

T

"At least, this generation's representative has sense
enough to go to bed when he's out on his feet," he
muttered. As he passed Larak, the boy winked.

The next morning at breakfast, no one looked as if
he had slept well. Afra kept a surface rumble going in
his mind to mask both tension and anxiety. Larak de-
livered a running monologue on his son. Damia was
also closely shielding. When they reached the Tower,
Damia took the most cursory glance at Station busi-
ness, and said "I'll take you out now, Larak."

"Fine. Dad wants Afra back at Callisto tonight."

Damia hesitated. "Afra had better come along, then,
for a second look around." She looked challengingly at
Afra, who shrugged.

This was, however, unexpected luck. Afra had
thought he might have to follow Larak and Damia sur-
reptitiously. He switched the boosters up to the top,
and signaled Damia and Larak to get into their cap-
sules. While they did so, he called Jeff and the Rowan
to stand by, then settled into his own shell, reassured
by their sustaining presence in his mind.

Is there any possible chance we're wrong about
Sedan's intentions, or the depth of Damia's emotional
commitment? pleaded the Rowan.

Less and less, Afra told her, grimly. We'll know
soon for certain. Larak needled her last night. She'll
have to check to make sure he's wrong.

Then he touched Damia and Larak, and all three
went the mere half-light further to the ship and
Sodan.

You have rested well and are strong today, was the
cool greeting after an instant's welcoming flash.

Damia instinctively covered against the discovery of
her co-riders, but the greeting stuck in her mind.
There was the hint that Sodan did not wish her so
strong, and yet a tinge of relief colored that fleck of
thought.

You come nearer to physical contact with us every
day, she began.

Us? Sodan queried.

My planet, my people ... me.

I'm only interested in you, he replied.

46

But my people will be interested in you, she parried
unable to censor from Afra and Larak the pleasure
she felt in his compliment.

There are many people on your planets? he asked.

Planet.

At least, Afra concluded, she remembered to be
politically discreet.

Doesn't your sun have several life-supporting sat-
ellites?

That is why I must know more about your physical
requirements. Damia replied smoothly. After all, my
home world may not have the proper atmosphere . . .

My physical wants are attended to, Sodan replied
coldly, with a slight emphasis on the second word.

It was the Rowan who caught the infinitesimal
break in his shielding, and simultaneously all four
minds stabbed at the area to lay it bare. Sodan, torn
by this powerful invasion, lashed back in self-defense
with a vicious blow at Damia, whom he thought per-
petrated the attack.

No, no! Not I, Sodan, she screamed. Larak, what
are you doing?

Afra struggled frantically to become the focus of the
other minds, only to find himself caught in Larak's
mind with the Rowan and Jeff, as the curious bond be-
tween brother and sister snapped into effect.

He must be destroyed before he can destroy you,
Damia, the Larak-focus said, tinging its inexorable de-
cision with the regret it felt.

No! I love him. His mind is so brilliant, cried Damia,
pitting her own strength against her peers to defend
her lover. The Larak-focus staggered back, unable to
prosecute and attack against such a combination.

Damia, he is only a mind!

Stunned, Damia hestitated, and the Larak-focus
plunged forward again, battering against the shielded
Sodan.

Only mind? She gasped, begging Sodan to deny it.

Why no vision? Why no sound? He is only a brain,
devoid of all except remembered emotion. He is bound
here to destroy. Feel the heavy stuff in the ship? Is
that customary for a peaceful scouting expedition?

47

You're against me, against me. No one -wants me
to be happy, cried Damia, suddenly aware, terribly
aware of her loving blindness. He loves me. I love
him.

If he has nothing to hide, he will let you see, the
Larak-focus continued implacably.

Let me see you, Sodan. Damia was pleading, des-
perately, hopefully.

For what seemed an eternity, Sodan hesitated.

// / could, I would, he said softly and with honest
regret.

Like a vengeful sword, her mind, freed from the
infatuation Sodan had artfully fostered, gathered and
sprang with the others to destroy the aggressor. For
Damia now understood the purpose behind Sedan's
impersonality. The battle was waged in the tremendous
space between two heartbeats. Sodan, his mind forti-
fied by the nuclear power of his ship, was stronger than
their conservative estimates. And almost negligently,
he held the Larak-focus at bay, his mind laughing
at what he considered their puny efforts.

Then Damia's pressure increased as she stripped
away the veil of her romantic illusions to align her-
self with the Larak-focus to defend her Sector. Sodan
called for more power within himself. The scorching
blaze that fed through Damia's growing catalystic mind
flashed through and stripped him bare, lashing beyond
to trigger the atoms of the ship into instability. Invol-
untarily, and for a microsecond, Sedan's past nickered.

Once, generations ago, embodied, he had breathed
an alien air, walked an alien road; until his brain had
been chosen to undertake the incredible enterprise of
crossing the galactic rift.

In my fashion have I loved you, he cried to Damia
as he felt her reach the fuel mass. But you never loved
me, he added with intense surprise as her mind, vul-
nerable in the instant of that massive thrust, was open
to him. And he shall not have you either!

With his last strength, Sodan sent out one final jeal-
ous mental blast just as the ship exploded.

Frantically, even as she felt herself blacking out
from the tremendous drain on her resources, Damia
tried to deflect that blow.

. As a kingpin flattens a row of its fellows, so Sedan's
blast, striking through the Larak-focus, caused a wave
of mental agony to roll backward to Auriga where Sta-
tion personnel grabbed at their skulls in anguish, to
Earth and Callisto where T-ratings cringed in pain,
and on to Deneb and even Altair. Horrified crews
found Jeffrey Raven and the Rowan unconscious in
their Tower couches. Jeran, head aching, was hastily
summoned, for FT & T command devolved to him in
the emergency. Jeran took time out to assure himself
that with sufficient rest his parents would recover, then
he informed the Federated World Government of the
event. He was requested to proceed with the defensive
fleet to Auriga.

Isthia appeared at Earth Headquarters at his urgent
bidding and, with her help, he was able to extract
gently from Jeff's taxed mind the position of the three
personal shells.

As they approached the orbit, they could "hear"
nothing.

It is possible, Isthia said hopefully as they could find
no discernible aura, that all three have gone into very
deep shock. The power in Damia's final thrust!

Damia cannot be dead, Jeran tried to convince him-
self. Sodan may have been powerful, but is there a
T-rating in the galaxy who didn't feel her hit him?
We cannot lose her! He had already resigned himself
to other losses.

"Ah!" Isthia gave a sharp gasp. 7 have them.

Jeran reached with her, signaling the flagship's T-3
to assist.

"She's alive," he cried in relief. / thought I felt
them all die.

"Afra lives, too, but he's very faint. Larak . . ." and
Isthia's voice faded. Why did the focus have to snap
through him?

They brought Afra's capsule in first, and Jeran, who
was at the head as the shell was opened, pressed fear-
ful hands against the man's temples. Afra's body was
drawn up in the fetal position of complete withdrawal.

"He's badly hurt, Isthia. God, will we save him?
Should we, if he'll be psionically numb for the rest of
his life?"

Isthia moved his hands aside, and applied her own,
her touch naturally more delicate than Jeran's.

"I can't tell more than that he wants to die. The
spark of life is very faint." She gave rapid mental or-
ders to the medics standing by so that, within seconds,
Afra's body was receiving emergency injections to
stimulate the failing life signs.

Divorce your emotions Jeran, Isthia told him
sharply. Help me reach him. He wants to die. We
must pull him back.

Jeran shook himself and, holding his breath, placed
his hands above Isthia's on Afra's head.

Together they probed, ignoring the mental anguish
they experienced at having to touch so torn a mind.
Uppermost was the thought that both Larak and Afra
had shared: Sodan striking at them and Damia, ex-
hausted, trying to block it.

He'll kill her, he'll kill her, was the repeated cry of
terror, a curious melding of both Larak and Afra,
swirling in the pain of Afra's mind. No, Damia. Don't
try. I waited too long. No, Damia. Then the enigmatic
sequence was repeated.

Damia lives, Damia lives, Jeran and Isthia told him.

Damia lives, damia lives damia lives, whispered the
essence of Afra.

Isthia caught Jeran's eyes with surprised confusion.
Hopeful now, they reinforced the will to live.

Afra, Damia lives. She rests. She waits for you,
Isthia murmured soothingly.

Sleep, Afra, rest. Damia lives, Jeran urged.

Damia lives? Damia lives!

With a shudder, Afra's body untwisted from the
fetal curl. For one terrifying moment, he was still.
Gasping, Isthia dipped way down into the suddenly
tranquil mind only to be reassured that Afra had
merely slipped into deep sleep.

"He's very badly hurt, Jeran," Isthia admitted sadly
as they watched the medics wheel Afra away to a
tightly shielded room.

They opened Damia's capsule together. She lay on
her side, looking very young, but there were marks
that showed the effects of that meeting of minds. She
had bitten through her underlip and a trickle of blood

50

ran in a scarlet line across her cheek. Her fingernails
had cut into her palms when she had clenched her fists
and her face was streaked with tears.

With infinite compassion, Isthia turned the girl onto
her back and laid both her hands lightly on Damia's
temples.

I can't reach them. I can't get there in time. I hurt.
I've got to try. I hurt. Oh, will I lose them both?
Isthia could hear the words faintly, deep in the tired
mind.

With a sigh of relief, Isthia straightened.

Is she badly burned? Jeran asked impatiently, hav-
ing waited outside Isthia's contact but aware it had
been made.

Not burned but deeply hurt on several levels.
Damia's been cut down to size, Isthia remarked rue-
fully, the terrible way only the very bright and confi-
dent are. She'll never forget that she underestimated
Sedan's potential because she became infatuated with
him.

For all of that, if she hadn't touched him first, where
would we be with such a menace zeroing from space?

Isthia waved that aside as of incidental importance.

That won't matter to Damia, Jeran. Her initial lapse
of judgment caused Larak's death and has seriously
injured Afra.

Merciful God, Isthia, once the attack on Sodan be-
gan, nothing could have saved Larak, no matter where
he was in the focus-mind. Death is far kinder than be-
ing burned out. She's not to blame.

Isthia shook her head sadly. No, she isn't to blame
and I hope it never occurs to her that, in the crisis,
instinct overrode reason and it was Afra she struggled
to save.

Afra? What in hell? asked Jeran before he followed
Isthia's thought to its source. So that's why Sodan struck
to kill. He was after Afra.

He stepped back as Isthia signaled to the medics to
administer deep-sleep drugs and intravenous nourish-
ment to Damia.

With great reluctance they turned to Larak's silent
shell. Because they had to, they opened it and saw
with some little relief that there was no mark of his

?1

passing on the young face. A curiously surprised smile
lingered on his lips.

Isthia turned away in tears and Jeran, too numb to
display his own sorrow, put his arm around her to
lead her away.

"Sir," the captain of the ship said respectfully when
they entered the control room, "we have the location
of the alien ship debris. Permission to recover frag-
ments?"

"Permission granted. Isthia and I will return to
the Tower."

"Very good, sir," the captain said, and stiffened to
a rigid attention. The unashamed tears in his eyes
and his very crisp salute expressed wordlessly his pride,
his sympathy, and his sorrow.

Struggling against a will determined to keep her
asleep, Damia fought her way to semi-consciousness.

"I can't keep her under. She's resisting," a remote
voice called to someone.

As distant as the sound was, like a far echo in a
subterranean cavern, each syllable fell like a hammer
on her exposed nerves. Sobbing, Damia struggled for
consciousness, sanity, and a release from her agony.
She couldn't seem to trigger the reflexes that would
divert pain, and an effort to call Afra to help her met
with not only the resistance of increased agony but a
vast blankness. Her mind was as stiff as iron, holding
each thought firmly to it as though magnetized.

"Damia, do not reach. Do not use your mind," a
voice said in her ear. The sound was like a blessing and
the reassurance it gave her wavering sanity was rein-
forced by the touch of ... Isthia's hands on hers.

Damia focused her eyes on the woman's face and
clutched Isthia's hands to her temples in an uncon-
scious plea for relief of pain.

"What happened? Why can't I control my head?"
cried Damia, tears of weakness streaming down her
face.

"You overreached yourself, destroying Sodan,"
Isthia said.

"I can't remember," Damia groaned, blinking away
the tears so she could at least see clearly.
52

"Every rating in FT & T does."

"Oh, my head. It's all a blank and there's some-
thing I have got to do and I can't remember what it
is."

"You will, you will. But you're very tired, dear,"
Isthia said crooningly as she stroked her forehead with
cool hands. Each caress seemed to lessen the terrible
pain.

Damia felt the coolness of an injection pop into her
arm.

"I'm putting you back to sleep, Damia. We're very
proud of you but you must allow your mind to heal in
sleep."

" 'Great nature's second course, that knits the rav-
elled 'sleeve of care.' What's knitting, Isthia? I've never
known," Damia heard herself babbling with a cool
scalliony taste in her throat as the drug spread.

Again, after what seemed no passage of time at all,
Damia was inexorably forced to consciousness by
her indefinable but relentless need.

"I can't understand it," came Isthia's voice. This
time it did not reverberate across Damia's pained mind
like tympany in a small room. "I gave her enough to
put a city to sleep."

"She's worrying at something and probably won't
rest until she's resolved it. Let's wake her up and get
the agony over."

Damia forced her mind to concentrate on identify-
ing the second voice. With a grateful smile she la-
belled it "Jeff." She felt her face gently slapped and,
opening her eyes, saw Jeff's face swimming out of
the blurred mass about her.

"Jeff," she pleaded, not because he had slapped
her but because she had to make him understand.

"Dear Damia," he said with such loving pride she
almost lost the tenuous thought she tried to hold
from him.

Her body strained with the effort to reach out only
a few inches a mind that once had blithely coursed
light-years, but she soon managed to communicate her
crime.

/ burned out Larak and Afra. I killed them. I linked
?3

to the Larak-focus and killed them to destroy Sodan.

I saved myself and killed them.

Behind Jeff she heard Rowan's cry and Isthia's ex-
clamation.

"No, no," Jeff said gently, shaking his head. He

placed her hands on his forehead to let her feel the
honesty of his denial. "In the first place, you couldn't.
You don't use others. You sort of shift gears into high
speed to make other minds work on a higher level. You
drew power from the Larak-focus to destroy Sodan,
yes. But the killing thrust was yours, Damia; you
were the only one capable of doing it. And every
T-rating in the Federated Worlds will vouch for that.
Your touch, my dear, is indescribable. Further, with-
out you to throw us into high gear, Sodan could have

destroyed every Prime in FT & T."

Damia heard an approving, admiring murmur from

Rowan.

"Will my touch come back? I can't feel anything,"

and in spite of her control Damia's chin quivered and

she started to sob with fear.

"Of course it'll come back, dear," said the Rowan,
who elbowed Jeff aside to kneel by her daughter and

stroke her hair tenderly.

"You'd better go knit some more sleeves of ravelled
care," Isthia suggested with therapeutic asperity. "You
knit like this," and Isthia inserted a visual demonstra-
tion of the technique of knitting into Damia's mind. It
was an adroit change of subject, but Damia, with a
flash return of perception, saw the three were evading

her.

"I must be told what has happened," she demanded

imperiously. A wisp of memory nagged at her and she
caught it. "I remember. Sodan made one last thrust."
She closed her eyes against that recall, remembering
too, that she had tried to intercept it and, "Larak's
dead," she said in a flat voice. "And Afra. I couldn't

shield in time."

"Afra lives," the Rowan said.

"But Larak? Why Larak?" Damia demanded, des-
perately striving to touch what she felt they must still be

hiding from her.,

"Larak was the focus," Rowan said softly, knowing,

54

too, that Damia would never absolve herself of her
brother's death. "Afra was supposed to be the focus,
being the experienced mind, but the old bond between
you and Larak snapped into effect. You tried to shield
Larak, but his mind was too unskilled to draw help
from you. Jeff and I felt it because we were part of the
focus, too, and we tried to help divert it. We could
cushion only Afra in time. Sedan's was a very power-
ful mind."

Damia looked from her mother to her father and
knew that that much was true. But another reservation
hovered in their eyes...

"You're still hiding something," she insisted, fighting
with exhaustion. "Where's Afra?"

"Okay, skeptic," Jeff said, lifting her into his arms.
"Though why his snores haven't kept you awake, I
don't know."

He carried her down the hall. Pausing at an open
door, he swung her around so she could see into the
room. A night light hung over the bed, illuminating
Afra's quiet face, deeply lined with fatigue and pain.
Denying even the physical evidence, Damia reached
out, touching just enough for reassurance the pained
mental rumble that meant Afra still inhabited his body.

"Damia, don't do that again," Jeff said, carrying her
back to her room.

"I won't but I had to," she replied, her head bal-
looning with agony.

"And we'll see you don't again until you're well
enough. Out you go, missy," and she slid into black-
ness.

An insistent whisper nibbled at the corners of her
awareness and roused Damia from restoring sleep.
Cringing in anticipation of the return of pain, she was
mildly surprised to feel only the faintest discomfort.
Experimentally, Damia pushed a depressant on the
ache and that, too, disappeared. Unutterably pleased
by her success, she sat up in bed. It was night and she
was in her family's home. She stretched until a cramp
caught her in the side.

Heavens, hasn't anyone moved me in months? she
asked herself, noting that her mental tone was firm. She

5?

lay back in bed, deliberating. Poor Damia, she said in a
self-derisive tone, ever since that encounter with that
dreadful mind-alien, she's been nothing but a T-4, T-9?
T-3? Damia tried out the different grades for size and
then discarded them all, along with her histrionics.

You idiot, you'll never know till you try.

Tentatively, without apparent effort, she reached out
and counted the pulses of three ... no four, sleepers.
Afra's was the faint one. But, Damia realized in calm
triumph, it was there. Which brought her face to face
with the second fact.

She slid from her bed to stand by the window. Be-
yond the lawn of evergrass, beyond the little lake, to
the copse of evergreens her glance traveled. And
stopped. Instinct told her that Larak was buried there
and the thought of Larak buried and his touch for-
ever gone broke her. She wept in loneliness, biting her
knuckles and pressing her arms tightly into her breasts
to muffle the sound of her mourning.

Out of the night, out of the stillness, the whisper
tugged at her again. She stifled her tears to listen, try-
ing to identify that sliver of sound. It faded before she
caught it.

Resolutely now, she laid her sorrow gently in her
deepest soul, a part of her but apart forever. No matter
what Jeff and Rowan said, she had caused Larak's
death and maimed Afra. Had she been less preoc-
cupied, less self-centered, she would not have been so
dazzled by the fancy that Sodan was her Prince Charm-
ing, her knight in cylindrical armor.

Such a pitiful thing she was: a spoiled, rotten-hearted
child, demanding a new toy to dispel boredom when all
the time .. .

The whisper again, fainter, surer. With a startled cry
of joy, Damia whirled from her room, running on light
feet down the hall. Catching at the door frame to brake
her headlong flight, she hesitated on the threshold of
Afra's room.

She caught her breath as she realized that Afra was
sitting up. He was looking at her with a smile of disbe-
lief on his face.

"You've been calling me," she whispered, half-
questioning, half-stating.

56

"In a lame-brained way," he replied. "I can't seem
to reach beyond the edge of the bed."

"Don't try. It hurts," she said quickly, stepping into
the room to pause shyly at the foot of the bed.

Afra grimaced, rubbing his forehead. "I know it hurts
but I can't seem to find any balance in my skull," he
confessed, his voice uneven, worried.

"May I?" she asked formally, unexpectedly timid
with him.

Closing his eyes, Afra nodded.

Sitting down cautiously, Damia lightly laid her fin-
gertips to his temples, and touched his mind as deli-
cately as she knew how. Afra stiffened with pain and
Damia quickly established a block, spreading it over
the damaged edges. Resolutely, regardless of the cost
to her own recent recovery, she drew away the pain,
laying in the tender areas a healing mental anesthesia.
Jealousy, she noticed someone else had been doing the
same thing.

Isthia... has... a... delicate ... touch... too. He
sent the thought carefully, slowly.

"Oh, Afra," Damia cried for the agony the simple
thought cost him, "You aren't burned out. You won't
be numb. I won't let you be. Together we can be just as
powerful as ever."

Afra leaned forward, his face close to hers, his yellow
eyes blazing.

"Together, Damia?" he asked in a low intense voice
as he searched her face.

Her fingers plucking shyly and nervously at his
blanket, Damia could not look away from an Afra who
had altered disturbingly. Damia tried to comprehend
the startling change. Unable to resort to a mental touch,
she saw Afra for the first time with only physical sight.
And he was suddenly a very different man. A man!
That was it. He was so excessively masculine.

How could she have blundered around so, looking
for a mind that was superior to hers, completely over-
looking the fact that a woman's most important func-
tion in life begins with physical domination?

"Damia--speechless?" Afra teased her, his voice
tender.

She nodded violently as she felt his warm fingers
?7

closing around her nervous hand. Immediately she ex-
perienced a profoundly sensual empathy.

"Why did you wait so long, knowing that I needed
you?" The words burst from her.

With a low triumphant laugh, Afra pulled her into
his arms, cradling her body against his and settling her
head in the crook of his arm.

"Familiarity breeds contempt?" he asked, mocking
her gently with her own words.

"And how could you ... a T-3 . . . manage
to mask..." she went on, growing indignant.

"Familiarity also bred certain skills."

"But you were always so aloof and reserved. And
Mother..."

"Your mother was no more for me than Sodan was
for you," Afra interrupted her, his eyes stern as she
stared up at him, shaken by his harsh voice.

His expression altered again, his arms tightened con-
vulsively as he bent his head and kissed her with an
urgent, lusty eagerness.

"Sodan may have loved you, in his fashion, Damia,"
Afra's voice said in her ear, "but mine will be far more
satisfying for you."

Trembling and ready, Damia opened her mind to
Afra without a single reservation. Their lips met again
as Afra held her tightly in what would shortly be far
more than a mere meeting of minds.

"Daughter" and "Dull Drums" were specifically
slanted for the young adult market, but the original
yam concerning Nora Fenn and the futuristic uni-
versity system is far, far out.

I had submitted a story called "A Pocket to Mend"
at the Pennsylvania Milford SF Writers' Conference,
chaired by Damon Knight and Kate Wilhelm. It was
savaged by the assembled writers as sentimental, im-
possible, and stupid! And after I had the opportunity
to try to explain my intentions, I was told that I had
done all the wrong things for all the wrong reasons.
They suggested I go home and really think the basic
idea through. From the original premise I retained the
term "Wendy," meaning a girl with tolerance and un-
derstanding (in my story, training), who acts as house-
mother to and bears the children of men with homo-
sexual proclivities.

I had enough homosexual male friends--even be-
fore the Gay Liberation developed--who were bitter
that they could not adopt children because of their
sexual preferences. I have never felt capable of writing
a full-length novel about this situation as it should
be written. So only these three stories exist, and they
involve a futuristic society in which all citizens may
have a "legal" child.

"Changeling" has never before been published. This
story deals with one aspect of the "Wendy" theme.
I wrote it originally in response to Harlan Ellison's
request for a story for his Dangerous Visions anthol-
ogy. Frankly, I think this one has a far more dangerous
vision than "The Bones Do Lie," the story Harlan
finally accepted.

?9

T

Daughter

THE MOMENT HER FATHER BEGAN TO YELL AT

her twin brother Nick, Nora Fenn edged toward the
door of the Complex office. George Fenn's anger al-
ways seemed to expand in direct proportion to the
number of witnesses. She knew it humiliated Nick to
be harangued in front of anyone, and this time there
was absolutely nothing she could say in Nick's de-
fense. Why hadn't he waited till she got back from
school and could help him program the Planter?

"Fifty acres clearly marked corn," and Father
viciously stabbed a thick forefinger at the comer of
the room dominated by the scale model of the farm.
He'd spent hours last winter rearranging the movable
field units. In fact, Nora thought he displayed a lot
more concern for the proper allocation of crops than
he did for his two children. He certainly didn't berate
the corn when the ears weren't plump or turned to
ergot.

"And you," roared Father, suddenly clamping his
hands tightly to his sides, as if he were afraid of the
damage they'd do if he didn't, "you plant turnips.
What kind of programmer are you, Nicholas? A sim-
ple chore even your sister could do!"

Nora flinched at that. If Father ever found out that
it was she, not Nick, who did the most complex pro-
gramming . . . She eased past the county maps, care-
ful not to rustle the thin sheets of plastic overlay that
Father had marked with crop, irrigation, and fertiliz-
ing patterns. The office was not small. One wall, of
course, was the computer console and storage banks,
then the window that looked out onto the big yard of
60

the Complex, the three-foot-square relief model of the
Fenn Farmlands on its stand. But two angry Fenns
would diminish a Bargaining Hall.

Nora was struck by a resemblance between father
and son, which she'd not really appreciated before.
Not only were both men holding their arms stiffly
against their sides, but their jaws were set at the same
obstinate angle and each held one shoulder slightly
higher than the other.

"I'm going to see that so-called Guidance Counse-
lor of yours tomorrow and find out what kind of
abortive computer courses you've been given. I
thought I'd made it plain what electives you were to
take."

"I get the course I'm able to absorb ..."

Oh, please. Nick, breathed Nora, don't argue with
him. The Educational Advancements will be posted
in a day, two at the most, and then there's nothing he
can do to alter the decision.

"Fenns are landsmen," Father shouted. "Born to
the land, bred by the land!"

The dictum reverberated through the room, and
Nora used the noise to mask the slipping sound of
the office door. She was out in the narrow passage-
way before Father realized that he'd lost part of his
audience. She half ran to the outer door, the spongy-
fiber flooring masking the sounds of her booted feet.
When she was safely outside the rambling trilevel
habitation, she breathed with relief. She'd better fin-
ish her own after-school chores. Now that Father'd
got started on Nick, he'd be finding fault elsewhere.
Since there weren't any apprentice landsmen on the
Fenn Farm Complex right now, "elsewhere" could
only be Nora. Mother never came in for Father's
criticism, because everything she did in her quiet
unspectacular way was perfectly done. Nora sighed.
It wasn't fair to be so good at everything. When her
children complained Mary Fenn would laugh and
remark that practice made perfect. But Mother al-
ways had some bit of praise, or a hug or a kiss to
hearten you when she knew you'd tried. Father ... if
Father would only say something encouraging to
Nick...

61

Nora stayed to the left of the low, rambling, living
quarters, out of the view afforded by the office win-
dow. She glanced across the huge plasti-cobbled
yard which she had just finished hosing down. Yes,
she had washed down the bay doors of the enormous
bam that housed the Complex's Seeder, Plowboy,
and Harvester. And done a thorough job of cleaning
the tracks on which the heavy equipment was
shunted out of the yard and onto the various rails
leading to the arable tracts.

Turnips! If only Nick had blown the job with a
high-priority vegetable, like carrots or beets. But
turnips? They were nothing but subsistence-level
food. Father cannily complied with Farm Directives
and still managed to plant most of the Fenn lands to
creditable crops like corn and beets. Fifty more acres
of turnips this year might mean Nick would have that
much less free credit at the university.

Nora sighed. When Educational Advancements
were posted, the suspense would be over, the pres-
sure off the graduating students. Who'd go on to Ap-
plied or Academic in her class, she wondered? But
there was no way of finding out short of stealing
Counselor Fremmeng's wrist recorder. You only got
pass/fail decisions in elementary grades. An ar-
bitrary percentile evaluation defeated the purpose
of modem educational methods. Achievement must
be measured by individual endeavor, not mean av-
erages or sliding curves. Young citizens were taught
to know that knowledge was required of contributing
citizens. Computer-assisted drill constantly checked
on comprehension of concept and use of basic skills.
Educational Advancement, either Applied or Aca-
demic, depended as much on demonstrated diligence
as inherent ability. Consequently, the slow student
had every bit as much chance, and just as much right
to education as the quick learner.

Well, Nora told herself briskly, it doesn't contrib-
ute anything to society to stand here daydreaming.
You'll know in a day or two. In the meantime . . .

Nora went through the grape arbor toward the
skimmer shed, near, the far left compound wall. She
had just turned in to the building when she felt the

62

reverberation of rapid thudding through the linked
plasti-cobbles. Then Nick came pounding around the
side of the building.

"Nora, lend me your skimmer?" he begged, un-
racking it as he spoke. "Mine's still drying out from
Saturday's irrigating."

"But, Nick ... Father..."

Nick's face darkened the way Father's did when
he met resistance.

"Don't give me any static. Nor. I gotta change
state..."

"Oh, Nick, why didn't you wait until I could've
checked you out?"

Nick set his jaw, his eyes blinking rapidly.

"You had to see Fremmeng, remember? And
when I got home, the orders were waiting and I
couldn't. I'm due over at Felicity's now." Nick turned
up the pressure gauge, filling the tanks of the skim-
mer. "Orders. Orders. That's all I ever get from him.
That and 'Fenns are crop farmers,'" Nick snorted.
"He thinks he can program kids like a computer.
Well, I'm not a crop farmer. It switches me off. Off!"

"Nick, please. Keep unity. Once you get to the
university, you choose the courses you want. He can't
go against Educational Advancement. And if he tries,
you can always claim sanctuary against parental co-
ercion. There isn't anyone in the Sector who wouldn't
support your claim ..."

Nick was staring at her incredulously, but sud-
denly the anger drained out of his face and was re-
placed by an exaggerated expression of tolerant
forbearance.

"Claim sanctuary? I haven't lost all sense of unity,
Nora," he told her sternly. "Hey, what did Frem-
meng want you for?"

"Me? Oh, he had the absolutely more irrelevant
questions! About how you and I get along, my opin-
ions on family harmony and social contributions, and
pairing off."

Nick regarded her with an intent, impersonal stare.
"He did, huh? Look, Nor," and her brother's

mood changed state completely, "I need to see

Felicity. I gotta blow out of here!"

63

Nora grabbed his arm as he inflated the skimmer.

"Nick, what did you say to Father?"

Nick gave her a sour look now. "I told him he'd
better hold off making so many big plans for me to
be the Fenn Complex's Master Ruralist, until he sees
the Educational Advancements."

"Nick, if you don't get Advancement, Father will
just...just..."

"Abort and sulk!" Nick finished for her. "No, I'll
get Advancement, all right. On my terms! There's
not a blasted thing wrong with Applied. It's Father
who tried programming the university for me. But
I've had different plans." Nick's look turned as hard
as Father's could when he'd lost crops.

"What do you mean. Nick? What have you been
doing?" Nora was suddenly scared. What had Father
driven Nick to do?

"Nora, sweetie. Old Bates at the Everett Complex
is about due for retirement. Felicity Everett and I
want to pair off as soon as the E.A.'s have been
posted. And it's just possible that Landsman Everett
would opt for me as assistant." Nick's expression
altered again, this time to enthusiasm, and Nora felt
relief at the change.

"Oh, he would. Nick. You know what he said
about your term paper on ovine gene manipulation."
Then Nora caught the significance of his plan.

"Yes, indeedy, sister mine. Nick can cut a program
on his own, without your help or Father's."

She was so astonished at the calculation in his
smile that he was able to loosen her fingers from the
handlebars. He was off on the skimmer at a high
blow before she could stop him.

"Nick..."

"Give my love to our foul-feathered friends!" he
called over his shoulder cheerfully, and launched
the skimmer straight across the meadows toward the
Everetts' Herd Complex.

Resolutely, Nora made for the distant poultry
house on foot. Father proclaimed that chickens and
turkeys were a woman's business. She hated tending
them and usually swapped the chore with Nick. Nick

found poultry a trifle more engrossing than the tedi-
ous crop programming.

Why couldn't Nick focus a little more attention on
what he was doing instead of expending all his ener-
gies thwarting Father? Irritably, she scuffed at a
vagrant pebble in the track that led straight from the
low-rambling Farm Complex, set in the fold of the
soft hills, toward the Poultry house. She could see
the glitter of the round roof as she topped the next
rise.

Educational Advancement! She so hoped that she'd
qualify ... at least for Applied Advancement. That
would prove to Father she wasn't all that stupid,
even if she was a girl. Maybe, if she could make
Journeyman Class Computer ... she really felt that
she understood mathematics and symbolic logic. If
she got Journeyman, Father mightn't be so disap-
pointed when he finally realized that Nick was ab-
solutely set against crop farming. While Father
might feel that women were being educated far be-
yond society's profit, no contributing citizen could
argue with the Advancement Board's decision. For
the board was impartial, having the best interests of
society and the individual at heart. Father might
scoff at the premise that everyone had the constitu-
tional right to shelter, food, clothing, and education
as long as he maintained a class average. But then,
Father disparaged a system that rewarded the dili-
gent student with credit bonuses for something as
intangible as academic excellence.

"That doesn't feed anyone, make anything, buy
or sell anything," he'd say when he'd started on that
tangent. There was no use explaining to such a prag-
matist.

If Nora could get certified in computer logistics
and was able to handle the Complex's Master Rural-
ist, then surely he'd be proud of her. He wouldn't
mind that one of his children was a girl, not the sec-
ond boy he'd printed into the Propagation Registra-
tion.

Father never let Nora, or her mother, forget that
he had not computed twins, nor mixed sexes. He'd
opted for both legal progeny to be male. Since early

65

sex education in school, Nora had wondered how her
mother had managed not only a multiple birth but a
split in sexes without Father's knowledge. For one
thing, multiple births had been uncommon for the
last hundred years, since Population Control had
been initiated. Most duly registered couples opted
for one of each sex, well spaced. Of course, George
Fenn would complain about PC, too. Or rather, the
provision which permitted only exceptional couples
to have one or two more children above the legal
number--in return for extraordinary contributions
to society.

"They put the emphasis on the wrong genetic fac-
tors," Father would argue bitterly whenever the
subject came up. "If you breed for brain, the species
weakens physically, flaws develop." He'd always flex
his huge biceps then, show off his two-meter-tall, one-
hundred-kilo frame in support of his argument. He'd
been disappointed, too, when Nick, scarcely an un-
dersized man, stopped slightly short of two meters in
height. Father'd glower at Nora, as if her slender
body had robbed her twin of extra centimeters.

How had Mary Fenn, a woman of muted qualities,
coped so long and amiably with her husband? Her
quiet, uncritical voice was seldom raised. She knew
when you were upset, though, or sick, and her ca-
pable hands were sure and soft. If anyone deserved
Maternity Surplus, it was Mother. She was so good!
And she'd managed to remain completely in control
of herself, a presence unperturbed by her husband's
tirades and intemperate attitudes, efficiently dealing
with each season and its exigencies.

Of course, it was no wonder that Mother was quiet.
Father was such a dominating person. He could shout
down an entire Rural Sector Meeting.

"A fine landsman," Nora heard her father called.
"But don't cross him," she'd heard whispered. "He'll
try to program things his way, come hell or high wa-
ter. He knows the land, though," was the grudging
summation.

"Knows the land, but not humans," Nora muttered
under her breath. "Not his children. Certainly he
doesn't know what his son really wants."

66

Maybe once Nick gets away to university, har-
mony will be restored between father and son. Nick
ought to have a stronger desire to maintain family
unity...

Crop farming wasn't all that bad, Nora thought.
By punching the right buttons, you could now mow
a thousand-acre field, as Nora had done as a preteen,
when the apprentices let her. You could winnow and
cull with a vacuum attachment; grade, bag, clean
your field far more efficiently than the most careful
ancient gleaners. You could program your Plowboy
to fertilize at five levels as the seed was planted. One
Complex with two families or a couple of responsible
apprentices could efficiently farm an old-time county-
sized spread and still turn a luxury credit. Not to
mention having fresh and ready supplies of any edi-
ble and some of those luxuries above the subsistence
level that the City Complexes craved.

Now Nora could hear the pitiful muted honking of
the geese in the Poultry House. She winced. There
were certain aspects of farming that could not be
completely automated. You can't tape a broody hen,
and you can't computerize the services of a rooster.
Cocks' crows still heralded sunrise over the fields,
whether the clarion summons issued from a wooden
slated crate or the sleek multipentangle that housed
the poultry raised by the Fenn Complex. Eggs laid
by hens in Nora's charge would be powdered and
eventually whipped to edibility on the Jupiter station,
or be flash-frozen to provide sustenance when the
first colony ship set forth as it was rumored to do in
the next decade. Turkeys from this Complex reg-
ularly made the one-way trip to the Moon bases for
Winter Solstice celebrations, call them Saturnalias or
Santa Claus if you would.

She entered the poultry pentangle through the
access tunnel which led straight to the computer core
that handled all watering, feeding, cleaning, egg col-
lection, and slaughter operations. The Fenn Complex
did not sell to dietary groups, so the market prepara-
tions were the standard ones.

She checked the tapes on the Leghorn fifth, re-
plenished the grit supply, and tapped out a reorder

67

sequence. She flushed out all the pen floors and re-
freshed the water. Then she checked the mean weight
of the torn turkeys, growing from scrawny, long-legged
adolescence to plump-breasted maturity. A trifle more
sand for digestion, a richer mash for firmer meats, and
a little less of the growth hormones. Concentrated
goodness, not size for size's sake anymore.

The geese were fattening, too, on their fixed
perches. Goose livers on the rod. Nora hated the
calculated cruelty that brought in credit margin for
the Fenn Complex. Stuff the poor helpless fowl,
engorge their livers for the delectation of the gourmet.
The geese lived sheltered, circumscribed lives, which
was not living at all, for they couldn't see out of then-
own quarters. Nothing distracted them from their
purpose in life--death from enlarged livers. Nora
was distracted from her chores by their shrill honking.
She forced herself to read the gauges. Yes, the upper
group were ready for market. Even their plaint reg-
istered the truth of their self-destruction. They'd been
bred for one purpose. It was their time to fulfill it. She
coldly dialed for a quotation on the price of geese
and goose liver at the Central Farm Exchange. The
European price printed out at a respectable high. She
routed the information to the Farm's main console.
It might Just sweeten Father's cantankerous mood to
realize a quick credit from the sale.

Nora took a detour on the way back, across the
one-hundred-acre field. The willows her great-
grandfather had planted the day the Farm Reforms
were passed were tipped with raw yellow. Spring was
an Earth-moment away. Soon the golden limbs would
sprout their green filaments, to drape and float them
on the irrigation ditch that watered their thirsty feet.
Would her great-grandchildren admire the willows
in their turn? The whimsy irritated her.

She walked faster, away from what the willows
stood for. She didn't really have to be back at the
Complex until mealtime, an hour or so away. Father
always programmed too much time for her to tend
the poultry house, which was an unflattering assess-
ment of her ability but usually gave her more time
for something she'd .wanted to do that Father might

68

not consider contributory. If only once he'd look at
her as if she weren't something printed out by mis-
take. How in the name of little printed circuits had
Mother dared to have twins?

Nora used her spare time to pick cress at the sluice
gate beds. It was a soothing occupation and contrib-
uted to dinner's salad. When she finally got back to the
house, she glanced into the office. The printout slot
was clear, so Father had seen her report. She'd sim-
ply have to wait to find out if he'd acted on the data.
The main console was keyed to his code only.

She heard the meal chime from the kitchen area
and quickly brought the cress to her mother, who was
taking roast lamb out of the oven. Did Mother know
about Nick's quarrel? Lamb was her father's favorite
protein.

"Oh, cress! That was a considerate thought, Nora.
We'll put a few sprigs on the lamb platter for looks.
There'll only be three of us for dinner, you know."

Nora didn't know, for surely Nick would be back
from the Everett Complex; but just then Father
came in, grim-faced, and sat down. Again Nora won-
dered just how far he had goaded Nick this afternoon.
Why had she played the coward and left?

The tender lamb stuck in her throat like so much
dry feed. Her stomach seemed to close up as if eating
had been programmed out, but she forced herself to
clear her plate. No one, in this day and age and es-
pecially at George Fenn's table, wasted real food.
Once--and only once--as a child she had left real
food on her plate. She'd spent the next two weeks
trying to swallow common subsistence-level rations.

Conversation was never encouraged at Fenn meals,
so the awkward meal dragged on. When Nora could
finally excuse herself and make for the sanctuary of
her room, her father stopped her.

"So, Nora, you've been doing Nicholas's program-
ming for him, eh?" Father's voice was icy with dis-
approval; his eyes were specks of gray.

Nora stared back, speechless. Oh, Nick couldn't
have!

"Don't gawk at me, girl. Answer!" Father's big fist

69

banged the table and a startled "Yes, Father," came
from her.

"And how long has this . . . this deception gone
on?"

Nora didn't dare look at him.

"How long?" Father repeated, his voice rising in vol-
ume and getting sharper.

"Since--since spring," she answered.

"Which spring?" was the acid query.

Nora swallowed hard against the sudden nauseat-
ing taste of lamb in her mouth.

"The first year of programming."

"You dared take over a task assigned your brother
--by me? Designed to acquaint him with the prob-
lems he'll face as a landsman?"

Instinctively Nora leaned as far back in her chair,
away from her father's looming body, as she could.
Not even George Fenn would disrupt family harmony
by striking a child, but he was so angry that it seemed
to Nora he had become a terrible stranger, capable
even of causing her physical harm.

"Nick couldn't seem to get the trick of it," she man-
aged to say in her own defense. "I only helped a little.
When he got jammed."

"He's a Penn. He's got farming in his blood. Five
generations of farming. You've robbed him of his her-
itage, of his proper contribu--"

"Oh, no, Father. Nick's always contributed. He'd
do the poultry . . ." and her sentence broke off as she
saw the bloated, red face of her father.

"You dared .. . dared exchange assignments?"

"You miss the point entirely, George," Mother inter-
ceded in her placid way. "The tasks were completed,
were well done, so I cannot see why it is so wrong for
Nick to have done which, and Nora what. They're
both Fenns, after all. That's the core of the matter."

"Have you changed state, woman?" Father wanted
to know, but astonishment had aborted his anger.
"Nicholas is my son! Nora's only a girl."

"Really, George. Don't quibble. You know, I've
been thinking of enlarging my contribution to society
now that the children are about to advance. I'd really
like to go back to the Agriculture Institute and up-

70

date my credentials. Sometimes," Mother went on in
the conversational way in which she was apt to de-
liver startling conclusions, "I think the children have
studied a whole new language when I hear them dis-
cussing computer logic. Remember when I used to
take an apprentice's place, George? Of course, it
would be much more interesting for me if you'd di-
versify the Complex. I can't have any more children,
of course, but if we bred lambs or calves, I'd've young
things to tend again. Society does say it'll satisfy
every individual's needs." She gave her husband an
appealing smile. "Do try to compute that in your fall
program, George. I'd appreciate it."

Looking at Mother as if she'd taken leave of her
senses. Father rose and pushed back his chair. He
mumbled something about checking urgent data, but
stumbled out of the dining area, past the office, and
out of the house.

"Mother, I'd no idea ..."

The rest of Nora's words died in her throat because
her mother's eyes were brimming with mischief and
she looked about to laugh.

"I oughtn't to do that to George when he's had a
big dinner. But there're more ways to kill a cat than
choking him with butter--as my grandmother used
to say. Although that's a shocking way to use butter
--not to mention a good cat--but Grandmother was
full of such dairy-oriented expressions. Hmmm. Now
dairy farming might not be such a bad compromise,
considering the printout quotes on milk and cheese
this spring." Then she closed her lips firmly as if her
own loquacity startled her as much as it did Nora.
The laughter died in her eyes. "Nora?"

"Yes, Mother?"

"In this society, a person is legally permitted to
develop at his own pace and follow his own aptitudes.
Not even a stubborn atavist like your father has the
right to inhibit another's contribution. Of course, the
responsible citizen tries to maintain harmonious re-
lations with his family unit up to that point of inter-
ference.

"You realized, I'm certain, that even if Nick has
no love of crop farming, he is basically attuned to

71

rural life. I've been so grateful to you, dear, for . . .
soothing matters between your father and brother."
The words came out haltingly and though Mother
didn't look directly at her, Nora could appreciate her
difficulty. Mother had scrupulously avoided taking
sides in the constant altercations between Nick and
Father. She had somehow always maintained family
unity. Her unexpected frankness was essentially a
betrayal of that careful neutrality. "I had hoped that
Nick might be a more biddable boy, able to go along
with his father's ambitions. They may be old-
fashioned--"

"Mother, you know Father is positively medieval
at times." Nora regretted her flippancy when she
saw the plea for understanding in her mother's eyes.
"Well, he is, but that's his bit. And he does make a
distinguished contribution as a landsman."

"Yes, Nora. Few men these days have your fa-
ther's real love of the earth. It isn't every landsman,"
Mother added, her voice proud, "who runs a Com-
plex as big as ours and makes a creditable balance."

"If only Father didn't try . . ."

But Mother was looking off into the middle dis-
tance, her face so troubled, her eyes so dark with
worry, that Nora wanted to cry out that she really did
understand. Hadn't she proved that with all she'd done
to keep unity?

"You're a kind, thoughtful, considerate child,
Nora," Mother said finally, smiling with unexpected
tenderness. "You undoubtedly rate very high on in-
terpersonal relationships."

"You must, too," Nora protested, glancing toward
the office.

Mother gave a rueful little laugh. "I do, or I
shouldn't have got on so well with your father all
these years. But, right now, we both have to work
together to maintain family harmony."

"You haven't had a deficiency notice on me, have
you?"

"Good lands, no, child," and Mother was clearly
startled at the notion. "But Nick had an interview
with Counselor Fremmeng and he's reasonably cer-
tain, from the way the Counselor talked, that he is
72

going to disappoint your father. You know that
George has been positive Nick would receive Aca-
demic Advancement. And frankly, Nora, Nick not
only doesn't want it, he's sure he won't get it."

"Yes, he mentioned something like that to me this
afternoon after Father reamed him," Nora said
sadly. "But what could Father possibly do in the face
of E.A. postings except admit that he couldn't com-
pute Nick into his own program?"

Mother gave Nora one of her long, disconcertingly

candid stares.

"It's not a question, Nora, of what your Father
would or would not do. It's a question of how we
maintain family unity, and your father's dignity and
standing in the Sector. With a little tactful and af-
fectionate ... handling, he can think it was all his own
notion in the first place."

Nora stared at her mother with dawning respect

and admiration.

"That's why you offered to update your creden-
tials?"

Mother grinned. "Just thought I'd plant the notion.

It is spring, you know."

"Mother, why on earth did you marry Father?"
Nora asked in a rush. She might never get another

chance to find out.

An unexpectedly tender expression on her mother's
face made her appear younger, prettier.

"Land's sake, because he was the kind of man I
wanted to marry," Mary Fenn said with a proud lift
of her chin. "A man to do for, and George takes a lot
of doing, you know. Keeps me on my toes. He has
such tremendous vitality. I like that. He knows and
loves and understands the land, and I wanted that,
too. I knew that was good for me, to be close to the
land, and I wanted to raise my children close to nat-
ural things. Sometimes I think there's too much de-
pendence on technology. I'm a throwback, too, Nora,
just as much as your father is with his antiquated
notions of a son following in his father's footsteps on
land that's been in the same family for generations."
Mother looked down at her square-palmed strong-
fingered hands as if they represented her inner self.

73

"I like to feel warm earth, to get dirty. I want to do
with my hands, not just let them idly punch a button or
two. I like growing things, young things. If I could've
defied the Population Control laws, too, I'd've had a
whole passel of brats to raise. As it was . . ." and
her lips formed a glowing smile of love and compassion
that could encompass a whole county.

"As it was," Nora said with a giggle, "you had
twins in spite of Father."

"Yes," Mary Fenn chuckled, her eyes lit up with
laughter, "I had twins. A boy for your father," and
her face was both dutiful and mischievous, "and a
girl for me."

"Well, Nick's not the son Father wanted. Mother--"
and suddenly the answer was the most important thing
in Nora's life. "--Mother, am I the daughter you
wanted?"

The laughter died abruptly and Mother placed her
square hands on either side of Nora's face.

"You're a good child, Nora. You never complain.
You work hard and willingly. Yes, you're a good
daughter."

But that wasn't the answer Nora wanted.

"But what do you want me to bet"

"Happy, Nora. I want you to be happy." Mary
Fenn turned, then, to glance around the kitchen area,
checking to see if all was in order. It was a dismissal,
a tacit gesture not to pursue this subject further. Her
mother often did that. Particularly with Father. She
didn't actually evade a question, simply didn't answer
it directly or fully.

"Mother, that isn't enough of an answer anymore."

Her mother turned back to her, her eyebrows
raised in a polite question that turned to a frown when
she'd studied her daughter's stem face.

"I only wanted a daughter, Nora, not a child in my
own image, to follow in my path. Just a girl child to
raise, to love, to delight in. A woman is proud to bear
her son, but she rejoices in her daughter. You've
given me much secret joy, Nora. I'm proud of you for
many, silly little motherly reasons you'll understand
when you have your own daughter. Beyond that . . ."
Mother began to move away. "I believe that every-

74

one must be allowed to determine his own life's
course. In that respect I am completely modem. Do
you dislike farm life as much as your brother, Nora?"

"No," but Nora realized as she said it that she was
no longer sure. "It's not that I dislike it. Mother, it's
just that I'd prefer to do something more ..."

"More cerebral, less manual?" her mother asked
teasingly.

Nora could feel the blush mounting in her cheeks.
She didn't want Mother to think she felt farming
wasn't a substantial contribution.

"Well," and her mother's voice was brisk again,
"the Advancements will soon be posted. They'll de-
cide the matter once and for all. In the meantime--"

"I'll be a good daughter."

"I know I can count on you," and there was a sud-
den worried edge to her mother's voice. "Now go.
You've studying, I know. You want to achieve a good
credit bonus at graduation."

Nora let her mother's gentle shove propel her to-
ward the ramp up to the bedroom level. But she was
far too disquieted to study. Her mother had never
been so forthright, and yet Nora did not feel the re-
assurance which ought to have resulted from such
frankness.

There'd been many nuances in the conversation,
emotional undertones which her mother had never
permitted her daughter to hear before. And so many
shifts. Almost as if Mother had really been sounding
her out. On what? Useless to examine emotions: they
were too subjective. They weren't computable data.

Nora tapped out a request for a mathematics re-
view, senior level, on her home-study console. She
was still staring at the first problem, when the com-
puter pinged warningly and then chattered out the
answer. Nora turned off the console and sat staring
at the printout.

Was she really the daughter Mary Fenn had
wanted? How would she ever know? She was cer-
tainly not the second son her father had intended to
sire, though she had all the capabilities he'd wanted.
If Nick wouldn't crop farm the Fenn Complex, how
were they going to get Father to accept a compromise?

75

Maybe Mother wanted her to prove to Father that she
knew more about crop farming than Nick right now?
No, George Fenn wanted his son to follow him at Fenn
Complex. If not Nick, then some man, because George
Fenn's atavistic temperament required him to pass land
to a man, not a woman, even of his own genetic herit-
age.

This year's apprentices would be assigned here
soon, fresh from their courses in Applied Agriculture
at the Institute. Maybe she'd like one of them, pair
off with him, and then the Fenn land would at least
remain in partially Fenn hands for another genera-
tion. Was this what Mother had been hinting at when
she mentioned Nora's rating in IPR?

No, the trick would be to get Father to agree to
diversify. That way Nick, who was just as stubborn
as his father, could follow his heart's desire and soci-
ety would benefit all around. But, when Mother
brought that notion up at mealtime. Father had
rushed out of the house as if his circuits had jammed.

Nora looked disconsolately down at the console.
Within the parameters of the programming, com-
puters reacted to taped instructions, facts that could
be ineradicably stored as minute bits in their mem-
ories. Only humans put no parameters on dreams and
stored aspirations.

The sound of a vehicle braking to a stop broke
into her thoughts. Nick had come back!

The angle of the house was such that Nora could
only see the blunt anonymous end of a triwheel from
her window. Nick had her skimmer. But--Nora
grasped at the notion--Nick had gone to the Ever-
etts. Maybe Landsman Everett was bringing him
back. Father openly admired the breeder, said he
was a sound husbandsman and made a real contri-
bution to society.

Nora sat very still, straining to hear Nick's voice or
Landsman Everett's cheerful tenor. She heard only
the subdued murmur of her mother's greeting, and
then Father's curt baritone. When she caught the sec-
ond deep male rumble, she ceased listening and turned
back to the console-. She did have exams to pass, and
eavesdropping did not add to family unity.

76

Nora usually enjoyed computer-assisted drill. It
put one on the mental alert. She enjoyed the chal-
lenge of completing the drill well within the allotted
time. So, despite her concerns, she was soon caught
up in her studies. She finished the final level of re-
view with only one equation wrong. Her own fault.
She'd skipped a step in her hurry to beat the com-
puter's time. She could never understand why some
kids said they they were exhausted after a computer-
assisted session. She always felt great.

"Nora!"

Her father's summons startled her. Had she missed
his first call? He sounded angry. You never made
Father call you twice.

"Coming!" Anxious not to irritate him, she ran
down the ramp to the lower level, apologizing all the
way. "Sorry, Father, I was concentrating on CAI
review . . ." and then she saw that the visitor was
Counselor Fremmeng. She muttered a nervous good-
evening. This was the time of year for Parent Con-
sultations, and deficiencies were usually scheduled
first. She couldn't have made that poor a showing . . .
A glance at her father's livid face told her that this
interview was not going the way George Fenn wanted
it.

"Counselor Fremmeng has informed me that you
have achieved sufficient distinction in your schooling
to warrant Academic Advancement."

The savage way her father spat the words out and
the disappointment on his face dried up any thought
Nora had of exulting in her achievement. Hurt and
bewildered, unaccountably rebuked in yet another
effort to win his approval, Nora stared back at him.
Even if she was a girl, surely he didn't hate her for
getting Academic ... In a sudden change of state,
she realized why.

"Then Nick didn't?"

Her father turned from her coldly so that Counse-
lor Fremmeng had to confirm it. His eyes were almost
sad in his long, jowled face. Didn't he take pride in
her achievement? Didn't anyone? Crushed with dis-
appointment, Nora pivoted slowly. When she met her
mother's eyes, she saw in them something greater than

77

mere approval. Something more like anticipation, en-
treaty.

"Your brother," Father went on with such scath-
ing bitterness that Nora shuddered, "has been ten-
tatively allowed two years of Applied Advancement.
The wisdom of society has limited this to the Agri-
cultural Institute with the recommendation that he
study animal husbandry." He turned back to face
his daughter, eyes burning, huge frame rigid with emo-
tion.

Serves him right, Nora thought, and quickly
squelched such disrespect. He had been too certain
that Nick would qualify for the university and be-
come a Computer Master for the Fenn Complex. He'll
just have to adjust. A Fenn is going on. Me.

"How . . ." and suddenly George Fenn erupted,
seeking relief from his disappointment with violent
pacing and exaggerated gestures of his big hands,
"how can a girl qualify when her brother, of the same
parentage, raised in the same environment, given the
same education at the same institution, receives only a
tentative acceptance? Tentative! Why, Nicholas has
twice the brains his sister has!"

"Not demonstrably. Landsman," Counselor Frem-
meng remarked, flicking a cryptic glance at Nora.
"And certainly not the same intense application. Nick
showed the most interest and diligence in biology and
ecology. His term paper, an optional project on the
mutation of angoran ovines, demonstrated an in-depth
appreciation of genetic manipulation. Society encour-
ages such--"

"But sheep!" Father interrupted him. "Fenns are
crop fanners."

"A little diversity improves any operation," Coun-
selor Fremmeng said with such uncharacteristic spe-
ciousness that Nora stared at him.

"My son may study sheep. Well then, what area of
concentration has been opened to my . . . my daugh-
ter?"

Nora swallowed hard, wishing so much that Fa-
ther would not look at her as if she'd been printed out
by mistake. Then she realized that the counselor was
looking at her to answer her father.

78

"I'd prefer to--"

"What area is she qualified to pursue?" Father cut
her off peremptorily, again directing his question to
the counselor.

The man cleared his throat as he flipped open his
wrist recorder and made an adjustment. He studied
the frame for a long moment. It gave Nora a chance
to sort out her own thoughts. She really hadn't be-
lieved Nick this afternoon when he intimated he'd
thwarted Father's plans. And she'd certainly never
expected Academic!

The Counselor tapped the side of the recorder
thoughtfully, pursing his lips as he'd a habit of doing
when he was trying to phrase a motivating reprimand
to an underachiever.

"Nora is unusually astute in mathematics and sym-
bolic logic . . ." The Counselor's eyes slid across her
face, again that oblique warning. "She has shown
some marked skill in Computer Design, but in order
to achieve Computer Technician . . ."

"Computer Tech-- Could she actually make Tech-
nician status?" Father demanded sharply, and Nora
could sense the change in him.

Counselor Fremmeng coughed suddenly, cover-
ing his mouth politely. When he looked up again,
Nora could almost swear he'd been covering a laugh,
not a cough. His little eyes were very bright. None of
the other kids believed her when she said that the
Counselor was actually human, with a sense of humor.
Of course, a man in his position had to maintain dig-
nity in front of the student body.

"I believe that is quite within her capability,
Landsman," Counselor Fremmeng said in a rather
strained voice.

"Didn't you say. Counselor, that Nora qualified for
unlimited Academic Advancement?" Mother asked
quietly. She held Nora's eyes steadily for a moment
before she turned with a little smile to her husband.
"So, a Fenn is going on to university this generation,
just as you'd hoped, George. Now, if you could see
your way clear to diversify-- And did you notice the
premium angora fleece is bringing? You know how
I've wanted young things to tend and lambs are so
79

endearing. Why, I might even get Counselor Frem-
meng to recommend updating for me at the Institute.
Then, George, you wouldn't need to spend all those
credits for apprentices. The Fenns could work the
Complex all by themselves. Just like the old days!"

"It's an encouraging thing for me to have such a
contributing family unit in my Sector. A real pleas-
ure," Counselor said, smiling at the older Fenns be-
fore he gave Nora a barely perceptible nod.

"Well, girl, so you'll study Computology at the
university?" asked Father. His joviality was a little
forced, and his eyes were still cold.

"I ought to take courses in Stability Phenomena,
Feedback Control, more Disturbance Dynamics . . ."

"Listen to the child. You'd never think such terms
would come so easily to a girl's lips, would you?" asked
Father.

"Mathematics is scarcely a male prerogative,
Landsman," said Counselor Fremmeng, rising. "It's
the major tool of our present sane social structure.
That and social dynamics. Nora's distinguished her-
self in social psychology, which is, as you know, the
prerequisite for building the solid familial relation-
ships which constitute the foundation of our society."

"Oh, she'll be a good mother in her time," Father
said, still with that horrible edge to his heartiness. His
glance lingered on his wife.

"Undoubtedly," the Counselor agreed blandly.
"However, there's more to maintaining a sound fam-
ily structure than maternity. As Nora has demon-
strated. If you'll come to my office after your exams
on Thursday, Nora, we'll discuss your program at
the university in depth, according to your potentials."
His slight emphasis on the pronoun went unnoticed
by George Fenn. Then the Counselor bowed formally
to her parents, congratulated them again on the
achievements of their children, their contribution to so-
ciety, and left.

"So, girl," her father said in a heavy tone, "you'll
be the crop farmer in this generation."

Nora faced him, unable to perjure herself. With
his pitiful honking about farming Fenns, he was like
a goose, fattening for his own destruction. She felt

80

pity for him because he couldn't see beyond his perch
on these acres. But he was doing what he'd been set
in this life to do, as the geese were making their con-
tribution to society, too.

Unlimited Academic Advancement! She'd never
anticipated that. But she could see that it was in great
measure due to her father. Because he had con-
sidered her inferior to Nick, she'd worked doubly
hard, trying to win his approval. She realized now
that she'd never have it. Father being what he was.
And being the person she was, she'd not leave him
in discord. She'd help maintain family unity until
Father came to accept Nick as a sheep-breeder, di-
versification on the Fenn acres, a Fenn daughter in
the university. Mother would step in to help with crop
farming and there'd be no decrease in contribution.

"I'll do all I can to help you. Father," Nora said
finally, realizing that her parents were waiting for
her answer.

Then she caught her mother's shining eyes, saw
in them the approval, the assurance she wanted. She
knew she was the daughter her mother had wanted.
That made her happy.

r

Dull Drums

THE TROUBLE WITH STUDENT-ISSUE CLOTHING

was not its neutrality, thought Nora Fenn, but its in-
stability. Did the suppliers think students doddered
about the academic cloisters like pensioners? She
fingered together the rent across her hip, hoping that
no one would brush against her and widen the tear.
She must have overstressed the fabric when she
stamped out of Con's last night. Wouldn't you know
it'd be on the left side, where her tights had run this
morning?

Doggedly she continued along the pedestrian way,
toward the Metropolis' Main Computer Block, twist-
ing through and dodging clumps of slower-moving
citizens.

It had been such an honor to qualify for the special
Cybernetics course, given by Master Scholar Siffert
himself, that Nora didn't mind the twenty-minute
commute from the University Complex to the Com-
puter Block no matter how the others in the class
complained. (Not much suited them anyhow!) After
nearly a year, she still reacted to the metropolitan
life with added alertness. Just to walk the pedestrian
ways, to look at the variety of faces and costumes and
shops was a treat for a Farm Complexbred girl. She
usually started for this class early so she'd have time
to window-shop and people-watch. But today Con's
mean words leapt about her mind.

"Yeah, you say you like people, Nora Fenn, but I
never saw anyone communicate less in my life."

"Just because I'm not always gibbering . . ." she'd
said in self-defense.

Con had thrown back his head and howled. "The
very notion of you . . . you . . . gibbering! May I be
around to see the day!"

There was nothing wrong, Nora told herself stoutly,
in taking pleasure in just being among people. You
didn't have to participate actively ...

But last night's scathing accusations rang in her
ears.

"You can't be a parameter cloddie forever, Nora.
You'll never really know what life is about until you
start communicating and experiencing actively. And
don't tell me you're in computer programming be-
cause that's your aptitude. That's your cop-out so you
won't have to live and feel. If your Guidance Officer
had wit one about him, he'd have phased you out of
Computer Science, and shoved you into the Human-
ities. And opened wide holes in your father's home-
brewed homilies."

"My father . .."

"Your father," and Con was so incensed the cords
stood out in his neck, "your father is a throwback to
all the parental autocracies, the chauvinistic, narrow-
minded, sex-blocked, inhibiting, maladjusting, mar-
tyrizing, egotistical, possessiveness that our present
system of social harmony is supposed to correct!"

"How dare you say such things!"

"Because you have! Only you're still too much
under your father's domineering influence to realize
how much you resent him."

"I don't resent my father. I understand his--"

"Understand?" Con threw his arms up in dramatic
frustration. "Understand why he's refused to give
you any decent credit allowance? By the printed cir-
cuits which feed us, every other Complex manager
would do without so he could budget something for
any youngster his unit can send on to Academic Ad-
vancement! And for a kid on unlimited Academic
Advancement . . . Wake up, Nora. Your ever-loving
father has never forgiven you, his daughter, much
less the Educational Committee, for letting you go on
to university instead of the male, his son, your
brother."

"I don't need credit allowances." Nora tried to

sound convincing, but she'd been hurt and confused
by her father's parsimony. "I got an academic bonus
of a hundred credits first term."

Con shook his finger right under her nose.

"You can fool yourself, Nora Fenn, but you, sure
as zero times zero is zero, don't fool me! Your pater-
nal parent has royally screwed you, and why you
persist in trying to prove you're worth his disdainful
notice, even if you are female, I don't understand.
He isn't worth the effort."

Con had stepped forward then, his expression hard
and angry as he grabbed her arms and gave her a
good shaking. His manner was frighteningly different
from the jovial, joke-cracking clown pose he usually
affected.

"Abort the Computer courses, Nora. Get into Hu-
manities. Take some Behavorial Psych. See objec-
tively how futile it is to try and win your father over.
And then grow up and live as Nora Fenn instead of
George Fenn's unwanted female child."

"Thank you, Connor Clarke, for your lecture and
your advice. Send me the bill! But don't try my num-
ber. I'm writing you out of my program from now
on."

She had grabbed up her cloak and strode from his
room, racing down the hall to the anti-grav shaft.
She'd entered it fast--that's probably when she'd
torn her tunic--and cried all the way down the a.g.
shaft to her own level, cursing Con under her breath
and desperately trying not to remember what he'd
said.

But his words haunted her now as she walked into
the shadow cast by the Computer Block. It was cold
in the shade and Nora pulled her shabby cloak
tighter around her. It had been the one piece of
Complex-issue clothing she'd been able to bring with
her. Not that her father had ever let his family use
more than farm issue.

"No need to put credits into fancy fabrics and silly
clothes you wear once a month. People should take
us for what we are, not what we wear. It isn't needful
for us to show our status."

"Needful," that was her father's operative word.

84

What was needful was procured instantly, and or-
dered in the best quality, regardless of the cost. What
was unnecessary was given scant consideration.

It hadn't been needful for Nora to have any credit
allowance from the Fenn Farm Complex. She would,
George Fenn had solemnly announced, have student
quarters at the University Complex, adequate food
since students did not eat subsistence-level but a
high-calorie diet, and sufficient clothing to cover her
decently. If Nora were as good a student as the Edu-
ucational Committee (which had passed her for
Advanced Study instead of her brother, Nick) had
said, then she would earn credit bonuses with those
brains of hers, wouldn't she? Privately, Nora had
vowed she'd earn a bundle. And she had. But now
she regretted her diplomacy--no, her subservient
conciliatory gesture, as Con would say--in permit-
ting her father to select a heavy CompSci program
for her first year.

"That way you'll qualify as Computer Technician
Grade n by spring instead of wasting your time on
unnecessary trimmings," her father had said.

What he meant, Nora knew now, was it wouldn't
be needful for the Fenn complex to pay the salary of
the Grade II Comptech for the spring planting.

Six months at University and Nora Fenn knew
that she wouldn't be able to go back to the Farm. It
wasn't simply the knowledge that her father's basic
sociological orientation was limited, but the realiza-
tion that she'd hated her existence there, from fatten-
ing geese to the tractor work that all the automation
in the world couldn't make much less bone-jarring.
The glitter of bright lights and vapid entertainments
in the Metropolis didn't attract her half as much as
the people: crowds, mobs, groups, the antithesis of
the lonely Farm Complex with its rigid society, sea-
sons, and the so-well-known personalities.

She was gregarious--but she didn't have to be
garrulous the way Con was--to enjoy a group sit-
uation. She didn't need to maul people with sweaty
hands: she could enjoy the sound of voices, the play
of emotions on faces, the interaction of brand-new
combinations.

8?

Deep in thought, she arrived at the great Com-
puter building. And crossed the magnificent inner
hall without gawking at the famous sculpture depict-
ing Man overpowering the Laeconia of Science. She
passed but did not re-examine the tri-dex models
reviewing the significant events leading to the Dicta
--Ecology, Economy and Society--in which the
technical sciences had swung violently to alleviate
the crushing social problems and foster the conserva-
tion of dwindling natural resources. She marched
quickly past the programming desk with its lines of
applicants and petitioners.

Every citizen had the right to Bank-storage: every
citizen could apply for additional space, for more
programming time, for re-programming: that was as
much their right as subsistence, shelter, and educa-
tion. Free access had ended citizen fear of a computer-
controlled society and had proved to the doubtful that
science worked for man's good, not his extinction or
domination.

Nora took the anti-grav shaft up to the storage
banks where the class was being held, and despite
her depressing reflections, she experienced that curi-
ous sense of elation, of purpose, that usually gripped
her on the way to this course.

She knew that as a first-year student she was in-
credibly lucky to be in Research Scholar SitEert's
special course. Master Siffert was the man in Com-
puter Programming. Each student had to be espe-
cially recommended by his or her Mentor and then
passed on by Siffert himself. (Nora had lost pounds
anticipating her qualifying interview with the man.)
Their integrity had to be above reproach because the
course included lift-lock privileges. All the laboratory
work involved the erasure of private records to clear
storage for new use, but lift-lock privileges meant the
student would have access to any records in the mem-
ory banks. Hence the care with which the candidates
were chosen.

To clear obsolete records from the memory the
students had to cross-check references in Housing
and Obituary, audit the old text, and check a variety
of items on income, profession, and free individual

86

use of computer access: the last chore was to provide
statistical data for a fair apportionment of storage
space to citizens. Nora wasn't certain of the exact
goal of the course, although she'd learned a lot from
the labs about data retrieval and erasure. Research
Scholar Siffert was known for his eccentric methods,
but undoubtedly all would be clear in the final lec-
ture.

The one aspect of the course she disliked was the
attitude of the other students. Granted they'd all
passed the same integrity clearance, but she did feel
their approach to the lab work was improper. It had
become the fashion to try and top each other with
ridiculous anecdotes drawn from their auditing. Cal-
lous and cruel, Nora thought, to ridicule the dead for
their shortcomings and human follies.

As she entered the Data Erasure room, she heard
Larry Asher's inane, cawing laughter above the gen-
eral chuckles.

"Haven't you heard any good ones, Fenn?" Asher
asked her as she slipped into a chair.

She shook her head.

"Fenn apparently specializes in dull drums," Clas
Heineman said with a twitch of his lips for the pun.

"On the contrary," Nora replied, raising her voice
above the laughter as she remembered Con's jibes,
"I've had some very interesting ones. But I don't
think they're ludicrous."

"Fenn also has no sense of humor," Clas remarked
with a rueful grin.

"Humor has nothing to do with your quips, Clas
Heineman. It's easy to mock something you've not
the sensitivity to appreciate."

"Oho, Fenn's got opinions, too," Larry Asher said,
chortling over the verbal tiff brewing between the
two. Heineman was not only an upperclassman, with
a high scholastic average, but also one of the univer-
sity's dominant personalities. "Tell us more, Fenn."

Clas Heineman dared her, his eyes sparkling. The
rest of the class waited, all too eager to see Heineman
score her down.

She took a deep breath and stolidly addressed
Heineman:

87

"What you don't appreciate, Clas Heineman, is
what a panorama of the human condition you've been

auditing."

"Go on," Clas said in that poisonously quiet tone
she'd heard him use before he changed the state of

some unwary underclassman.

"I know what you'd find hilarious--the woman
who recorded her husband snoring so she could prove
to him that he did. After he died, she'd have that
played back every night so she could get to sleep."
Someone guffawed and she glared in his direction.
"That isn't funny: it's human. So's the man who pro-
grammed a report of his luxury credit standing to
wake him up every morning and put him to sleep at
night. Then he won the Index Lottery and canceled
the instructions. Or the fat woman who had the words
'think thin' played back all day just below the audible
level. It must have worked because three months
later there's a stop-order. Of course, you're all so
grand and well adjusted that you won't need to pro-
gram such things. And all those would-be poets . . .
Why are they so laughable? You all pinion your friends
and make them listen to your sonnets. At least the
dead poets only bored themselves!" She knew that the
frustration and anger in her voice were not for the class
alone but for her own personal situation. But she'd
started to let go all those pent-up feelings. "And I'd
just love to be around when someone, a hundred
years from now, starts auditing your files. I wonder

what will be risible to him."

The smirks had faded from some faces, but Clas
Heineman's smile remained as fixed as the glittering

eyes he focused on her.

"And for all your scholastic honors, I don't think

you've realized just what all these so-funny incidents

show."
"Since you're so acute, suppose you tell the rest of

us obtuse clowns." Heineman's voice was deadly
now and Nora was suddenly as scared as she'd been
when she confronted her father and insisted on her

student rights.
"The subtle change of fear and suspicion of his

neighbors to fear and suspicion of the computer-based
88

society: then a gradual acceptance of computer-
assistance. We all started with records beginning in
1990 when the main Comp banks were switched on
in this Metropolis, so you should all see what I mean.
By mid-century I noticed a definite drop in the in-
cidence of recorded paranoia, and the incidence and
repetition of psycho-chem therapy. It's noticeable
because people begin inputting the most deeply in-
timate secrets. They've realized that no one can
break a privacy seal. . . until we come along with our
sophomoric mentalities."

"Oh, come now, Nora," a girl said from the back
of the room, "so much of it's pretty damned dull."
But she sounded embarrassed.

"I don't agree. I think it's fascinating to watch a
saner mental outlook emerge."

"Thank you for the lecture, Miss Fenn," Larry
Asher said with a jeer.

"Thank you, indeed. Miss Fenn," repeated a
deep voice.

The entire class swiveled about, startled. In the
doorway stood the substantial figure of Research
Scholar Siffert. The students leapt to their feet. "Thank
you, class. Remain standing, Fenn."

She felt the hopeful aura of the class as they
watched Master Siffert approaching her. She felt ut-
terly miserable, but she held her chin up and her
shoulders back. She was damned if she'd let anyone
see her change state.

The Scholar closed the distance between them,
with each step looming more and more forbiddingly.
He isn't at all like Father, she told herself, half-
heartedly. She steeled herself to look him in the eye
and then realized that Master Siffert was by no means
grim. His lined face was suddenly cut by an enor-
mous grin. He seized Nora by the shoulder and turned
her toward the expectant students, one arm proprietar-
ily draped over her shoulder.

"Nora Fenn has just earned a scholarship bonus
of three hundred luxury credits, and a distinctive
honors scholastic credit."

There was an astonished mass gasp. Nora closed
her mouth with a snap when she realized that her

89

jaw had dropped open. Three hundred l.c.'s? He
couldn't possibly mean that! And a d.h.? What on
earth had she done?

"We will dismiss the rest of you from today's audit-
ing. I do not believe that you would be able to keep
your mind on your work after Fenn's astute sum-
mation. And then, too, you will need considerable
time for the essay, the length of which I leave to your
judgment," and he swept the room with the stern
glance, "on the psychological trends in personal pro-
gramming in the early twenty-first century. I believe
that most of you have penetrated the fifty-year mark
of that era. Nora Fenn," and he gave her a paternal
hug, "has spared you what I imagine would have
been an unwelcome surprise at term end when this
essay normally would have been announced. You
are dismissed."

The group rapidly dispersed. Nora made an at-
tempt to follow, but the Scholar's heavy arm re-
mained about her shoulders and to disengage herself
would be improper.

When the room had cleared, the Scholar released
her, gesturing toward a chair. He seated himself next
to her, crossing his legs and beaming at her.

"I don't really deserve--"

"Nonsense, my girl. Not many students outsmart
Siffert." His beam took on additional radiance.

Nora felt a blush rising in her cheeks. He chuckled
and patted her hand.

"No, now. You were using your mind and your
heart, which all too few computer programmers do.
They tend to regard people as bits to be recorded or
changed, instead of thinking, emoting humans with all
the frailties of the human condition." He chuckled
again. "I had rather counted, you know, on the no-
torious student irreverence toward the task to obscure
the ultimate goal of the course."

Nora groaned, realizing that she had undone some
very careful manipulating.

"I do so enjoy the look on their faces when these
young scuts have to change state to the proper polar-
ity. There ought to be some very stimulating essays.
And," his eyes twinkled at Nora, "to have a student

90

capable of some independent evaluation--outguess-
ing a Research Scholar--delightful!" He beamed.
"Really delightful!"

There was no question that she'd pleased him, and
Nora began to relax though she still couldn't believe
in her good fortune. With an alacrity at odds with his
size and age, the Scholar rose and strode to the mas-
ter panel that dominated the classroom. Nora heard
his lift-lock slide in and then the click of rapidly de-
pressed input keys: the almost negligible pause be-
fore print-out occurred. Master Siffert grunted and
turned, leaning against the control board and eying
her thoughtfully.

"Really diverting but, my dear Fenn, whatever are
you doing in Computer Sciences?" He waved a print-
out sheet at her. "You'd be wasted on a Farm Com-
plex. What on earth is your Complex Manager
about? Not to say your Local Guidance Officer? And
why have you been permitted to continue in a cross-
aptitudinal course? Really, I shall have quite a deal
to say to your Mentor. However could he encourage
you in this gross misdirection of ability?"

"Sir, I applied for CompSci."

"What? How's that again? CompSci with your
personality index? Good heavens, no! Won't dol I'd
be going against the precepts of the Educational Act
to condone that!" He strode over to her. "Don't look
so woebegone, my dear. Do some serious re-
evaluation yourself. I'd say you'd be much happier
in socio-psych dynamics, for instance. Can't imagine
how you've been permitted to continue almost a full
academic year in the wrong field. I shall definitely
have a word with your Mentor."

"Please, sir. It's not his fault. My Complex Man-
ager needs a good Computer Technician ..."

"You'd be wasted on a farm, my dear Fenn.
Wasted. Surely your parents have seen your real ap-
titudes."

"Sir, my father is the Complex Manager and it's
my wish to--"

Scholar Siffert pinned her with an astonished stare.

"Your father? Is the Complex Manager and . . .
Good heavens, I thought such situations couldn't

91

happen anymore." Siffert blinked and regarded her
with outright horror. Then his expression softened.
"You appear to me to be a very level-headed young
woman, Nora Fenn."

"The situation has been difficult, sir. You see, my
twin brother. Nick, opted for animal husbandry. He
wasn't qualified for Academic Advancement, just
Applied." Nora knew she was expressing things badly
and stammered on: "Father'd always expected that
Nick would be the Computer Technician and--well,
it wasn't socially harmonious to do anything else just
then."

Siffert regarded her sternly. "The situation is out-
rageous. Parents cannot be permitted to live vicar-
iously through their children. Can't be permitted.
You should not be in Computer Sciences. You're ex-
cused from the rest of the course."

"I'd really like to continue ..."

The Scholar made a rueful noise and then smiled
kindly at her. "Well, it wouldn't be good for class
morale for you to stay on, my dear. Besides, you've
already accomplished what the course was designed
to effect: an understanding of the human condition
behind the bits and program status. No, my dear. Use
this course time to find out where you really belong.
Consult your floor psychman." He gave her a warm,
reassuring smile. "I'll register your scholastic rating
and bonus. Why don't you ring up your boyfriend
and sport him to a real-meal? And I warn you, I shall
have a few words with your Mentor. In person." He
wheeled, his Scholar's robe billowing behind him, to
the master panel, in effect dismissing her. As she left
the room, she heard him typing, heard the printout
chatter a rebuttal.

She couldn't believe what had happened: a fan-
tastic credit bonus and a distinctive honors. Just wait
until she told Con! She could feed him . . . And then
she realized that she couldn't tell Con for several very
good reasons: Scholar Siffert supported Connor
Clarke's opinion that she shouldn't be in CompSd at
all...

"Nora..."

Clas Heineman blocked her path.

92

She ducked, ran to the grav shaft, and entered it
fast. If Con was the last person she wanted to see
right now, Clas Heineman was the next to last. She
whipped out of the grav shaft on the ground level and
dodged through the throng in the Main Hall. She
underestimated Heineman's determination to intercept

her.

He caught up at the entrance, grabbed her hand
and, when she wrenched free, caught at her tunic, all
but ripping the student-issue clothing from her.

"Hey, I'm sorry," he cried, dismayed. Before
Nora could protest, he'd wrapped her tightly in his
own cloak and bustled her onto the fast pedestrian
way, speeding toward the edge of the metropolis. She
couldn't struggle with her clothing in shreds and only
his cloak saving her from an immodesty citation.

Shaken by the morning's events and last night's
scene, Nora began to cry.

"Hey, don't get in that state, Fenn," Clas said,
concerned. "I'm not polarized. In fact, I owe you an
apology. Two." Clas Heineman grinned at her, his
eyes anxious. His arm tightened reassuringly, his
fingers pressing into her waist under the cloak. When
he felt her bare flesh, he politely took a new hold. "I
didn't mean to tear your clothes. This student issue
isn't worth a discarded bit, is it? Good thing you've
got three hundred Ic's."

Clas reminded her in the nicest way that people
were looking at them, even if they were on the fast
belt and speeding by. It wasn't good manners to publi-
cize intimacy.

"Oh, Clas, it's so far back to the U!"

"Back to the U? For more student issue? Don't be
silly, Fenn. We're transferring ... now!"

He half lifted her to the moderate-speed belt and
then, with a second warning, to the slow one. At the
next shopping center, he guided her off and straight
into the clothing section.

"I've always wondered what you'd look like in a
decent outfit," he said conversationally as he steered
her into the shop. He gave her an appraising look.
"Deep red ... like that suit, for instance."

"Oh, no! That's fourteen credits." But Nora

93

couldn't help coveting the smart tunic suit with its
silver piping, the ample sleeves, and the matching
garnet cape. It was made of a tightly woven durable
material.

"A first-year student who has copped a dh in
Siffert's course cannot appear back on campus in
tatters," Clas told her, and before she could protest,
he dragged her up to the shop's computer and shoved
her wrist ID disc into the slot, punching out a data
request. She wasn't certain if Clas made a deliberate
or an unconscious mistake in data retrieval. A credit
balance was all that the shop required, but he'd
punched for a credit check. The entries made a dis-
tressing picture of her economic status. There was the
student bonus for her midterm and the shocking al-
lowance of ten credits from her Complex.

"Clas, that's not fair ..."

His eyes were thoughtful as he looked at her.

"You got a lousy Complex, girl. Well, you can tell
'em to feck off if that's all they can scrape up for a
student with your ability. Why, my Complex . . .
Change state! Let's get you dressed, girl."

The attendant had appeared, prompted by the use
of the computer panel. Clas erased all but the credit
balance and the attendant's smile was correspondingly
affable.

"If you're going to feel guilty about spending for
clothes, Nora Fenn, I'll drag you to the nearest psych
machine," Clas Heineman said later as they emerged,
socially apart, from the shop.

"I shouldn't have let you talk me into buying so
much," Nora said, but she smiled at him. He'd over-
ridden her objections and, neatly reinforced by the
shop attendant, who had visions of a respectable
commission, talked her into buying not only the garnet-
red suit but two other outfits and some pseudo-leather
boots: all completely unnecessary since Nora had
maintained that the one good outfit would do for social
occasions, and she could, after all, do well in student
issue for classes.

"A d.h. has a certain position to maintain, Nora,"
Clas informed her, and told the attendant to airshoot
the rest of the purchases to Nora's student quarters.

94

"Now, I'll do some spending," he said, and steered
her to the nearest eating house.

He didn't consult her, just punched out a high-
protein lunch, definitely luxury class.

"If I asked you what you wanted you'd probably
insist on ordering basic standard, and this is not the
day to be basic or standard. Not after your class per-
formance."

That reminded Nora of the remarks she'd directed
at him and, abashed, she stared down at her hands.
He started to laugh.

"Nora," he said in a wheedling tone that surprised
her into looking up, "do you know the real aim of
Siffert's courses?" Then, before she could speak, he
shook his head. "No, not the humanistic approach
to computer programming. Think again?"

Nora shook her head, too confused by the day's
events to be able to think logically.

"It's to puncture the pomposity of computer pro-
grammers. You were the only one," and Clas
waggled a finger at her, "who wasn't trying to figure
out what technical trick Siffert had up his sleeve this
semester. The trick was not technical, of course, and
the rest of us smart-ass d.h. and student programmers
have been neatly deflated to size. By you and by
Siffert. Oh, for the love of little apples, Nora Fenn,
will you stop blushing? Ah, here's food. Real food!
Not student pap or subbie wad."

Nora ate with as much relish as Clas, although she
was shocked at such profligate expenditure of credit
on food. Clas was amusing company, too, completely
unlike Connor, whose single-minded intensity when
ingesting food left no tune for conversation. Natu-
rally they discussed the course and Clas urged Nora
to expand on her observations. Although it seemed
to Nora that she was monopolizing the conversation,
Clas gave no indication that he was bored by what
she had to say. It wasn't until the lights began glow-
ing on the walkways that Nora realized how late it
was.

"I've got to get back to my Dormblock. I've an
assignment to research," she said.

9?

"Say, it is rather late. And I've work for tomorrow,
too. Not to mention that essay next week."

"Well, you've more than enough material now to
get an honors grade on Siffert's essay," Nora said as
she settled her new cloak about her shoulders and
smoothed the fabric with an appreciative hand. Then
she noticed Clas staring at her in a guilty fashion.

"Did you think I'd--"

"Why not?" Nora was puzzled. "I was afraid you'd
be furious with me for what I said in front of the
class. And then you gave me this lovely treat..."

Why on earth did Clas look so stunned?

"Fenn . . . Nora, you've an alarming habit of
changing state when no one expects it." He got to his
feet.

It was difficult to talk on the fast belt back to the
University Complex, but Clas kept one hand firmly
about her waist and whenever she looked up at him,
he smiled down at her and gave her a little squeeze.
When they finally hopped over to the University Plaza,
he took both her hands in his.

"What's your call sequence?"

She stammered it out, because she certainly hadn't
expected him to ask for it. He gave her hands one
more squeeze.

"You'll be hearing from me, Nora Fenn. After
I've turned in that essay."

And somehow, to her surprise, she believed him.

She had to take the cross-campus belt to her dor-
mitory quad, a trip she'd found rather chilling in the
old cloak with the wet spring winds knifing around
building comers. She pulled the new, windproof
cloak more tightly around her, secure in its warmth
and in the warmth of the day's miracles. Just wait till
she showed Con ...

The day's pleasures diminished. It'd been gratify-
ing to have Clas Heineman interested in her, prod
her into buying more clothes than were really need-
ful, and luxuriating in a high-credit meal, but she'd
rather have shared her triumphs with Con. He'd
shared her miseries.

She was half tempted to go to the Commons and
see if, by any chance, he might be about. But he
96

wouldn't want to see her, not after the way she'd
stormed out of his place yesterday. She'd even told
him she'd canceled his number from her program.
She hadn't, of course, but he wouldn't know that.

She cudgeled her brain to think of some way of
apologizing to him, of making amends. She couldn't
help him with any of his courses because he was in a
different discipline. She'd darned all his socks and
patched his good cloak where the fastening had torn.
She'd . ..

"Hey, don't you speak to old friends now you're a
d.h., with a five-hundred-credit bonus?"

Con's bony fingers clutched her arm and swung her
about. She searched his long, doleful face, with the
shock of bird's nest hair, the rather ludicrous black
handlebar moustache, and saw only comic dismay in
the wide-set intelligent grey eyes.

"You mean, you're still speaking to me?"

"Whaddya mean? Am I still speaking to you?" He
frowned and then, seeing they were attracting at-
tention, pulled her out of the walkway and into the
angle of the building. "You mean, because of last
night?"

She nodded, swallowing anxiously, watching the
shift of expression on his mobile face. He was no Clas
Heineman for looks, but she felt much more com-
fortable with Connor Clarke. He took her by both
arms now and gave her a rough shake, his thin fingers
biting into her flesh.

"Aw, Nora," he said in a cajoling tone, his eyes
tender, "friends can get mad at each other, you
know, without printing out a major disaster. Be-
sides," and he recovered himself with a characteristic
shrug, "I was right and you ought to know it today.
Say, gal, have I been strutting for you since I heard.
A d.h. and 500 Ic's? And you scored oS Clas Heine-
man and all those wire-brained plug-in artists .. ."

"The bonus was only three-hundred and Clas
Heineman--"

"You watch that soft-soaper, Nora," and with one
of his sudden switches, Con was in a sober phase
again. "He may come trying to pick your brains
'cause he's got to maintain his--"

97

"He already has," Nora said, giggling. Now she
knew what had disconcerted Clas Heineman in the
food shop. He'd laid on the charm thick and figured
he'd taken her in when he was pumping her about
her files. Only it'd never occurred to her that that
wasn't a fair exchange for the way she'd talked to
him in class and for the meal he'd bought her. She
did know more about people than programming.

"He has?" Con was nonplussed.

"He waylaid me after Siffert excused me and--"

"He didn't!"

"And," Nora giggled again, twirling on her toes
to show off her cape and the tunic suit underneath,
"he made me spend money on new clothes. D'you
like 'em? The student issue j'ust tore right off me."

"Huh? Oh, yeah, nice-- Tore right off you!" Con
looked angry enough to take Clas Heineman apart
bit by bit.

"Mind your thoughts, Con. Really, you're over-
reacting in a gross fashion. Besides which, you caused
the first rip in my s.i. last night . . . All Clas wanted
was to pump me and--well, after the way I rounded
on him in front of the class . .."

"Nora!" Con roared her name with a most reas-
suring possessiveness in his tone. "Nora . . ." Then he
deflated with misery. "Nora, I was wrong last night.
You don't have to gabble like me to relate to people.
You know\"

"No, Con, you were right. And I am out of
CompSci. Master Siffert is ordering me out," she
said, patting Con's face to reassure him and grinning
affectionately at his miserable expression.

"Well, then," and Con brightened immediately,
putting his arm around her waist and drawing her
over to the cross-campus walk, "since that's settled,
let's go eat and you can tell me all about it. Mind you,
I've heard some state-changing versions that don't
sound like my Nora at all." He stopped in his tracks,
so that she all but tripped over his feet. "That is, if
you want to ... after the way I treated you last
night."

Nora smiled up at him. "Oh, go tell it to the com-
puter. It has to listen to you!"
98

Changeling

CLAIRE GLANCED QUICKLY AT ROY AGAIN, HER

mind churning with astonishment, fury, and confusion.
She simply had to persuade him to bring her back to
City. Prenatal instructions blithely stated that the first
birth was apt to take longer, but never how long.
Claire knew that she had a wide pelvis, and she'd done
all the strengthening exer-- She concentrated on deep-
breathing as the uterine muscles contracted strongly.

Good God, was this why Roy had been so faithful
in attending the prenatal courses? She and Chess had
thought that it was only because this baby was Roy's
and, because of his sexuality, likely to be his only is-
sue. Had Roy planned this all along?

She swallowed, for the nausea was acute.

"Roy, I'm going to be sick," she said, amazed that
she could speak so calmly.

"Don't!"

The order was frightening, almost as frightening as
the speed with which he skipped the uneven terrain,
barely skimming the low ridges as the helicar climbed
higher and higher into the Alleghenies.

He must be taking me somewhere, but where?
Claire thought desperately. And why? Why?

A short, strong contraction pulled at her and she
gasped inadvertently. Roy looked at her then, his
almond-shaped eyes narrowing slightly.

"That's too soon. Are they increasing?"

"Yes, yes. You've got to take me back to City, Roy."

"No."

A flat-out, inarguable negative.

"For your baby's sake, Roy . . ." The soft entreaty,
99

intense despite her quiet voice, caused the perfect curve
of his wide mouth to flatten in anger.

Claire felt bereft of all courage. Roy was not going
to be dissuaded from whatever insane course he had
inaugurated. And that was very like Roy . . . and ter-
ribly unlike him. Why? Why? Where had she mis-
calculated with this brilliant, beautiful, complicated
personality. What had she, after all, done wrong? Ar-
tificial insemination had solved his basic problem in
the matter of becoming a father. Had he so little con-
fidence in her after the years they'd lived so equably
together? What maggot had got into his mind over this
baby? He couldn't be jealous of Chess ... or EUyot?
That was the prime reason for her having Roy's child
first.

Claire had to stop thinking to concentrate on breath-
ing as the contractions renewed. As she checked the
sweep second hand on the heli's panel, she realized
that Roy, too, was timing the spasms.

Oh, God, what is the matter with him? Why is he
acting this way? We thought we'd covered every pos-
sible reaction. But to kidnap me? At the onset of labor?
Roy, Roy, what did I do wrong?

Claire fought back tears, which would infuriate Roy.
She wanted to scream but such a distressingly female
reaction would not serve. It was the calm, rational
quality of their relationship, the experts had told her,
that was so essential to Roy's stability. The fact that
Claire was always serene, so much the antithesis of the
flamboyant feminine emotionalism which was repug-
nant to Roy Beach, had sustained this unusual experi-
ment in human relationships. Now, every instinct in
her rebelled noisily against his actions. But every last
shred of disciplined rationality she had cried caution,
patience, containment.

What had possessed him that he was compelled to
act in this fashion? Things could go wrong, even at
the last minute, and if they were so far from the City's
obstetrical help, what could she do? Then Claire re-
membered again that Roy had attended every prenatal
lesson and had read more books than she had. She bit
her lips to contain an hysterical sob. Now she knew

100

that it had not been complacent acceptance that Roy
had exhibited, but twisted planning.

No, not twisted planning, she hurriedly corrected her
thoughts. Roy wasn't twisted: he just saw things from
a different angle. A very different angle, since he re-
garded women as a different species, useless in his en-
vironment. Up to the present moment, she'd been the
sole exception. And how could she have been so dense
as to imagine that he would react in any normally pre-
dictable fashion at the moment of parturition of the
one child he was likely to sire?

The groan that issued from Claire's throat was part
despair, part pain.

Roy glanced at her again, his eyes sliding around,
through, beyond her, without seeming to pause long
enough to admit her existence. He did note the con-
tractions that rippled across her swollen belly. He
frowned slightly as he looked back across the hills.
Judging, Claire realized, whether he had enough time
to make his destination before the birth occurred.

Where could he be taking her? Did EUyot know? Or
Chess? Ellyot surely, of the four of them, should have
caught an inkling of Roy's plans. Roy barely noticed
her these last few months, but he was constantly with
EUyot and Chess. The grotesqueness of her once slen-
der, perfect figure would be repugnant to him: she'd
expected that. Her physical perfection had first at-
tached Roy to her. So it was reasonable for him to be
revolted by her gravid condition even though it was his
child that warped her body. She had dressed as con-
cealingly and fashionably as possible and then kept out
of his way--to the point of ducking into closets when-
ever she heard his quick light step in the house.

Unable to look at him or at the blurring green of
the forest over which the heli passed, Claire closed her
eyes and shuddered again. She forced herself to
relax into the contractions. They were unquestionably
stronger--and longer. She could tell that without re-
course to the chronometer. And Roy was timing them,
too. Let Roy take over. He had. Let him do his worst.
He would be the biggest loser. By God and all the
growing insight of modern psychiatry, she had done

101

her best. Between pains, she cast back into memory
and tried to reason out this extraordinary abduction.

Roy Beach, Praxiteles, Adonis, Apollo, call him
Male Beauty in the classic mode, and adore him . . .
at a distance. Always at a distance, please. He is not
to be touched, he is untouchable. The crisp golden curls
that fall in stylish sweeps across the high forehead; the
wide-set, slightly slanting almond-shaped, green-green
eyes over broad cheekbones, eyes that looked with such
ruthless intensity at the wonders of the world, assessing
its hidden beauties, disclosing its accepted horrors; the
fine straight nose with sensitive flaring nostrils; the sen-
suous lips, neither too full nor too thin, graceful in the
double curve of an Apollonian bow; the firm wide jaw.
An incredibly beautiful face--and a beautiful body,
tall, straight, deep-chested, muscular with graceful
strength, hairlessly smooth. Then Nature compounded
her gifts and gave him an intelligence that ranked him
one of the most brilliant geopoliticians of the past three
centuries. Nature, not always kind, added one final
quirk to the psyche of Roy Beach, prince among men,
to ensure that no princess would rouse tender, hetero-
sexual feelings in his superb breast. And yet...

Claire Simonsen met Roy Beach in City University
Complex. If they had not chanced to attend the same
seminar, they would doubtless have been introduced by
some meddler or other. As Roy Beach was a sleeping
prince of godly perfection, Claire Simonsen was Snow
White. Hair black as coal, skin white as snow, lips red
as drops of blood on a queen mother's linen, she was
gracious and gentle, and the fairest in the land--at
least, in Penn City and its environs. She was also an
extremely intelligent young woman: not equal to
Beach as a theoretician--for her talent was in personal
relationships which translated into human terms the
geopolitical equations--but she was both able to follow
and interpret his theories up to the point where he
made the final ascent of intuitive genius.

At the time they met, Roy had not yet admitted his
sexual preference and was intensely aggravated by the
importunities of both sexes. Claire, for the same rea-
son, saw in him the answer to her insistent suitors.

"I don't like females," Roy had told her that first

102

evening in his quarters. "But I also haven't found a
man with whom I can form an attachment." Roy never
equivocated. "I may never find someone congenial. If
you do, you have my blessings. Until that time--" and
one of his rare and beatific smiles touched the perfect
lips "--be my guest?"

"With you, candor has become an art," Claire had
replied.

"If we are to continue to deal pleasantly together,
candor is essential."

Claire distinctly remembered that she had been
strolling around his study room (even as a student, he
rated status quarters), admiring the simplicity and ele-
gance of its furnishings, the knowing placement of the
few paintings, the Britton bronze, the Flock marble
statuette. Unquestionably, Roy had been the model.

"You feel compelled to preserve the image of mas-
culinity?" she had asked.

He had shrugged, his almond, green-green eyes ex-
pressionless.

"I am the image of masculinity."

"But not its substance."

He had frowned slightly, then he again awarded her
that incredible smile. This time, it lit his eyes with hu-
mor.

"Sexuality in this day and age is, thank God, a per-
sonal, not a social choice. However, there is subtle pres-
sure to pah- off, and until this has been done, one is
subjected to constant entreaties." He paused, nodding
understandingly as Claire shuddered. Until Roy had
blatantly annexed her that evening, she had been pes-
tered by three quarrelsome and competitive fellow
freshmen. "You are the most beautiful woman I have
met. It is a pleasure to listen to your voice, to watch
you move across a room." Roy smiled wryly. "Artis-
tically, we complement each other."

"We do," Claire could not help grinning back at their
reflections in the mirror surface of the darkened terrace
doors. "God and witch. White and black."

"Are you always so tactful, Claire?"
She was a trifle startled at the laughter in his voice,
at the definite twinkle in the intensely green eyes.

103

r

Whatever reservations she had faded. Without humor,
Roy Beach would have been insufferable.

"Let us see how we deal together, then," she replied.
"It'll be a relief, even if we split up next Saturday, to
have those hot-handed louts off my . . . my back."

Smoothly, Claire had adapted herself to Roy's ways.
It was never mentioned but it was obvious to a girl
with Claire's perceptions that the weight of compromise
in the arrangement would always be hers. However, it
was a small price to pay for being left alone once the
word got abroad that Roy Beach and Claire Simonsen
were quartering together. There might have been in-
tense private speculation, but custom forbade probing.
They were welcomed everywhere and were soon the
acknowledged leaders of their University class.

The key, Claire had discovered, to Roy's intricate
personality was to accept him at his own evaluation, a
fluid standard which she understood intuitively at first,
then intellectually as she penetrated deeper into Human
Behavorial Sciences, until she could not have said why
she knew how to suit him but invariably did. Theirs
could never be a physical relationship, but Claire oc-
casionally thought she was his mental alter ego. How-
ever, in his own way, he was devoted to her and as
aware of her emotional needs as she was of his; once to
the point of being demonstrably tender with her when
one of her brief love affairs dissolved painfully.

It had been a tempestuous affair and ended in a bit-
ter quarrel. Claire had run blindly back to Roy's quar-
ters to find him waiting for her, and patient with her
distress.

"You appeared to enjoy him," Roy had remarked
when she paused at one point in her harangue. "He's
got a reputation for proficiency, at any rate. Or didn't
he make a good lover, after all?"

Claire had pulled the remnants of her pride together
and looked at Roy.

"He is certainly physically attractive," Roy had said
thoughtfully, taking her by the arm and leading her
toward her old room. "But not your intellectual equal.
You'd've fought sooner or later. Here's a trank: it'll
ease the worst of the withdrawal."

He had pushed her onto her bed, tugged off her

104

boots, gave her water to down the medication, and, to
her immense surprise, had kissed her cheek lightly af-
ter he arranged covers over her.

With amazement, she detected a faint shadow of
worry in his eyes.

"We understand each other, Claire. We complement
each other. Do not settle for less than the best your
own excellence can command."

As she drifted off to sleep, Claire was oddly com-
forted that Roy regarded her as a personality in her
own right, and not as an adjunct or supplement to his
own consequence.

There had been further brief associations for her,
but always the standard that Roy had set for her gov-
erned the flare of sexual desire. On those occasions she
had terminated the relationship--until Ellyot Harding
was introduced to Roy at the Eastern Conference of
Cities.

When Roy brought the slender dark man back to
the flat--Roy and Claire had moved, of course, to ci-
vilian quarters after obtaining their advanced degrees
--Claire was instantly aware of the bond between the
two men, and of her own attraction for Ellyot. She was
also aware of the surprise that rocked Ellyot Harding
at her presence in Roy's quarters. She could all but
hear his startled thought. What's a woman doing with
him?

But Ellyot was quick to perceive subtleties and, on
the heels of the first shock, came comprehension. He
had instantly stepped forward, to grip her hand, to
place a cool kiss on her cheek.

"You must be Claire Simonsen," for Roy had not
yet had a chance to introduce her. "I followed your
programmed analysis of the Deprivation Advantage
with intense interest. In fact, I have allowed for that
factor in the renewal project currently planned in my
City. Oh, I apologize . . . Roy is rescuing me from the
sterility of Transient Accommodations, and the inevi-
tability of having to talk shop with other victims
trapped there."

Ellyot's good-natured smile never touched just his
lips, his whole face was involved in it.

"Go right ahead," Roy urged, turning to dial drinks

10?

at the console. "I rather thought you two would have
overlapping interests. Explore them while I order a din-
ner suitable for this momentous occasion."

The look on Ellyot's face was mirrored in Claire's
for both caught the nuance, the unspoken assumption
in Roy's bland directive. EUyot smiled, raised his eye-
brows in a question.

"Yes, it is indeed an occasion," Claire said. "You
might like our northern scallops, Ellyot--tender, sweet,
delicious."

"The North has much to recommend it," Ellyot re-
plied, leading Claire to the deep wall lounger. His man-
ner was both triumphant and entreating.

Ellyot did not return to the Transient Accommoda-
tions or to the southern City which had sent him to
the Conference. Claire's supervisor hired him immedi-
ately he made known his willingness to transfer. By the
time City Management reviewed accreditation in the
fall, the three had enough status to move to a larger
single dwelling on the outskirts of the City. In fact,
Claire was surprised at the outsized dwelling Roy chose
for them.

"It's marvelous to have such space to spread out in,
Roy, but it'll take every accommodation credit we own
to manage this place," she had said.

"Not for long," was all Roy said, imperturbably.

He looked insufferably pleased with himself during
the few weeks it took them to arrange and settle into
the new house. Claire noticed that Ellyot was unusu-
ally irritable and put that down to Roy's insistence on
each of them having a separate sleeping room. In fact,
relations, up until then extremely harmonious, became
strained.

"What is he up to?" Ellyot demanded of Claire one
evening when Roy was at a meeting. "I know he's be-
ing coy about something."

"So do I, but I thought you'd know."

"Well, I don't. You've known him longer, Claire,
can't you hazard what's on his mind?"

"Did you think I've some magic talisman to see into
Roy's mind? I don't even sleep with him."

"That's the first, catty thing I've heard you say."

"It wasn't catty, Ellyot, truly," she said in gentle

1'06

apology even as he blurted out a request for pardon.

"You're a remarkable woman, Claire. Why have you
never cut out? Why aren't you--well, jealous or . . ."
He hesitated and, to her surprise, blushed. "I mean,
you're so obviously hetero, and yet . . ." He gestured
vaguely around the high-ceilinged living room.

"It's as much Roy for me as for you, Ellyot," she
heard herself say, and then stopped, having finally
voiced that admission. "Yes, it is Roy. We have never
been lovers--never--but there's nothing of misplaced
maternity in my relationship with Roy, or sisterly af-
fection for that matter. It's a relationship ... of the
spirit. No platonic nonsense, either. I honestly, truly,
deeply admire, respect, and . . . and love Roy. I can-
not live fully without him and I cannot--"

"I know exactly what you mean," Ellyot said softly,
with a ghost of a smile on his lips, but none in his eyes.
He leaned back against the couch. "You remember the
day we met? I'd a hetero marriage contract set up in
my old City, you know, but half an hour in Roy's com-
pany and that was all over." He grinned. "I wanted
children, you see, but Roy was too much."

Now Ellyot turned his head toward her, his eyes re-
flecting her image. She felt his hand touch hers, spread
her fingers against his palm.

"She was no match for Roy... or you." He dropped
her hand and abruptly stood up, almost glaring at her.
"And this is not fair to you, either. You've enough
status to have a child of your own from a lover. Get
out of here, have a child, marry, don't waste your life
on us ... on Roy. He doesn't mean to be exclusive.
He just is."

His outburst surprised him as much as did her, for
he dropped down on the sofa, one arm behind her, and
Scowled earnestly as he covered both her hands in a
tight grasp.

"Yes, he just is," Claire said softly. "I cannot leave
him, Ellyot, any more than I can leave you. There's
no other company I'd rather keep, you know." She
gently returned the pressure of his hand.

"But I know you want children. I've seen you paus-
ing by the playyards. I've seen the longing in your
face."

107

"I'm in no hurry. I'll find someone..."

EUyot snorted his opinion of that naivete. "You
haven't even had a lover in the past year. All you've
done is work ... work."

"You've been keeping tabs on me?" Claire was
touched by his sudden protectiveness. That was more
Roy's role than Ellyot's.

"Neither of us wants you wasting your womanhood
on just anybody... or no one."

Claire shook her head slowly, conscious of a deep
and tender affection for EUyot. "Did neither of you
think to ask my opinion?"

Ellyot glanced sharply down at her. His eyes dark-
ened and he pulled in a deep startled breath just as
he bent to kiss her fully and passionately on the mouth.

When she and EUyot emerged from her room the
next morning, Roy merely nodded pleasantly and in-
vited them to join him at the table. Breakfast for three
had already been dialed.

Nor was there any embarrassment. Almost, Claire
once mused, as if Roy had expected something of this
sort and was relieved that it had finaUy taken place.
After the first occasion, Claire had to be the aggressor
with Ellyot, though he was never reluctant.

However, in the course of the next few months,
Claire realized that the lovemaking she shared with
EUyot could become invidious. It was impossible to
make love with Ellyot and not sense Roy, not make
love with Roy through EUyot, not hunger for Roy's
magnificent body when EUyot's covered hers.

Roy had brought EUyot into their circle for his own
ease and solace. Triangularity could deteriorate the re-
lationship. Claire must find a fourth member. She
wasn't getting any younger, and Ellyot was correct
about how much she longed for a child.

Claire was convinced that Roy had perceived her
turn of thought. Of course, they had been talking about
building a real kitchen into the house the next time City
Management raised their total income. Roy was in-
tensely interested in raw food preparation and increas-
ingly annoyed with the mass-produced combinations
available from the public kitchens, despite the interest-
ing variations he achieved with what came out of the

108

dispensers. But it was Claire, restless, increasingly dis-
satisfied, who undertook to find an architect who would
design a kitchen room for them.

The first firm she consulted laughed at the notion of
an entire room devoted to the preparation of food for
consumption. The second thought she wanted a rough
arrangement such as could be installed in a retreat too
far from a City or Center for regular facilities. They
recommended another firm that did reconstruction work
for museums. That was how she met Chess Baurio.

"He's very busy, you know," she was told over the
telephone by the receptionist. "But the notion is bizarre
enough that he might just like to try it." An appoin-
ment was made and she went directly to his office, not
far from their home.

It could never be called love at first sight, for he
was extremely antagonistic from the moment she in-
troduced herself. Only because he'd never attempted
to solve such a design problem did he reluctantly agree.
And then, under the stipulation that it was done his
way. He knocked down one after another of her plans,
sarcastically deriding her painstaking research. In fact,
when she had finally got him to agree to come to the
house and examine the proposed site, Claire wondered
why she had put up with his manner and attitude for
one session, much less contemplate a further associa-
tion.

Still, when he arrived the next morning, he was un-
expectedly pleasant, even charming--until Roy walked
in. If Roy Beach was the personification of the classic
concept of the male manner. Chess Baurio was the
twenty-first century's. Compact, lean, healthily attrac-
tive, alert, he was the antithesis of Roy's studied indo-
lence. Roy was the aloof, detached, arrogant observer;

Chess was the involved, enthusiastic, vital participator.

As Roy strode up to the terrace where she and Chess
were discussing the location of the kitchen room, the air
became charged with electric hostility.

Claire looked at Chess, saw that his eyes were snap-
ping with anger, that the smile on his face was set, that
his movements as he leaned forward slightly to shake
Roy's hand were jerky. His manner became stilted,
109

false. She glanced at Roy, who was his usual urbane
self.

"Chess Baurio? You designed the new theater com-
plex at Northwest 4," Roy said by way of greeting.
"Now, why did you use polyfoam instead of Mutual's
acoustical shielding?"

"Ever heard the wows in the Fine Arts Theater at
Washington South?"

"Can't say that I've been in that theater, but wasn't
it John Bracker, Claire, who was so vehement in his
objections to playing in that hall?"

"He did mention he'd rather play under Niagara
Falls," she said lightly, hoping to ease the tension.

"And polyfoam corrects wow?" Roy demanded of
Chess.

"In that size building, or in amphitheater form."
Baurio's voice had a bitten quality.

"I've been advised to use it in our music room," Roy
went on, blandly, dialing out three coffees and passing
them round as if Chess would naturally take his black
as they did. "What's your opinion on its use in a small
room?"

"As a consultant?"

The rudeness in Chess' tone surprised Claire. People
were rarely rude to Roy. He simply didn't elicit that
kind of response. She held her breath. Roy did not ap-
pear to notice.

"The kitchen room comes before the music room,
but we always combine efforts. I believe that Ellyot
. . . Ellyot Harding," and that was the first time Claire
ever heard Roy qualify any acquaintance so pointedly,
"is the third member of the house . . . has a prefer-
ence for natural woods as acoustical materials, rather
than manmade products."

Hostility fairly bristled from Baurio now.

"We have not really discussed the music room. I
imagine, however. Designer Baurio, that if the kitchen
room is successful, we'll get busy on the other," Claire
said, trying to sound relaxed and gracious. Why was
anything Roy said so offensive to this Baurio?

"I'm not at all sure," Baurio said icily, putting down
his untouched cup of coffee, "if anything I designed
would be successful in this . . . this kind of manage."

110

Not even Roy could ignore that, and he slowly
turned toward Baurio, his eyes glittering.

"You object to polyandry?"

"I object ... I object to such a monopoly, to the
sheer waste of . . ." He broke off, glaring savagely
from Claire to Roy before he spun around and strode
out of the house.

"What on earth possessed you to come out with
statements like that, Roy?" Claire asked. "He was . . .
to design a kitchen room ... What happened?"

Roy smiled down at her. "He'll be back. And you
must make him stay."

After the most tempestuous three months in her en-
tire life, she did, but only when their marriage contract
had been registered in the City. And that came about
only because Roy and Ellyot cornered Chess privately
at the end of a particularly bitter quarrel.

The end of the mad abduction and the cessation of
a particularly painful contraction--her muscles were
beginning to hurt despite training and control--were
simultaneous. Claire opened her eyes to a leafy vista,
the tops of trees below the heli's landing gear. Startled,
she peered down. The heli was perched on the edge of
a sudden, sharp drop, the bottom of which was hidden
by foliage. Wildly she turned to Roy. His eyes wouldn't
focus on her, his breath was uneven.
"Can you move?" he asked.

"Where?" She couldn't control the quaver in her
voice.

He threw up the hatch and jumped out, ignoring the
gasp she made as she had a flash of him disappearing
over the precipice, leaving her alone and at the mercy
of her body's birth-drive in the cramped nose of the
heli.

"Put your hands on my shoulders," he ordered, and
she found herself obeying.

She moved as quickly as she could, knowing that a
spasm was seconds away. It seized her as she reached
out to him and sent her reeling into his arms. He had
seen the look of pain on her face, and deftly caught
her to him, holding her firmly despite the awkward
position for them both.

Ill

It seemed an age until the contraction passed. She
submitted weakly as he swung her up and strode off.
She buried her face against his shoulder.

Does he intend for me to have the child in the
woods, like an animal? she wondered.

"You'll have to open the door," he said in her ear.

She looked down and fumbled for the crude latch,
surprised that there should be a door, for she had only
the fleeting impression of the facade of the retreat, its
rustic logs, the heli's floatons apparently resting on the
surface which camouflaged the retreat. Vaguely, she
hoped the roof was firmly supported against the heli's

weight.

As Roy angled her through the doorway, she caught
a glimpse of the superb view of the valley below them,
the mountains beyond. When had he acquired such a
retreat? Or who had lent it to him? Stupefied, Claire
wondered if Ellyot had suspected this and kept silent.

A contraction. She couldn't suppress the groan,
which deafened her to a statement Roy muttered under
his breath. But, seemingly a century later, he laid her
on a bed and was arranging her body in the best posi-
tion to ease the strain.

"A hard one, huh?" he said as she lay, panting. She
didn't resist as his hands turned her gently and stripped
off her maternity sack, or as they felt her writhing ab-
domen.

How can he bear to touch me? He has scarcely

looked at me for five months.

The next moment she became aware of other prep-
arations for the coming birth and she began to struggle

fastidiously.

"Don't resist. This has to be done. For the child's

sake."

Hearing the anger and distaste in his voice for what
he had to do, she forced herself to relax and endure

his ministrations.

Her waters broke while she was on the toilet and
she began to whimper, more from embarrassment and

tension than pain.

"What is it?" His voice was clinical.
"The waters broke."

112

T

He got her back to the bed, on her back, and ex-
amined her with the deftness of her obstetrician.

"The head is in the birth canal," he said just as she
experienced the first of the second-stage contractions.
"That's right. Push down!"

She fought the hand that pressed down on the upper
part of her belly.

"No, no Roy. Leave me alone. Get a doctor. Please,
Roy!"

His face loomed suddenly above her so that she was
forced to open her eyes wide and look at him.

"I know what to do, Claire. The child is mine!"

"But you could have assisted at the hospital, Roy,"
she cried, slowly perceiving through her pain and anx-
iety what motivated him.

"With Chess listed as your legal spouse? We haven't
that right yet. No, Claire, this is my child."

"It's mine, too," she screamed.

"Is the pain unbearable? I'll fix the mask for you."

"Mask?"

"I have assembled everything that might be needed,"
he told her in that odd flat voice. "Do you need the
mask now?"

"No, no. No!" She couldn't succumb to the desire
for relief from the pain, though it was fierce now, fierce
and inexorable, convulsing her body, seizing her with
a steadily increasing rhythm, permitting her not so
much as a moment to relax straining muscles.

"Good. Press harder. Press downward." She heard
his voice through a mist of sweat and tears and pain.

She grabbed at the bed, flailed wildly around for
something to hang onto and was rewarded with a
strong wrist to grasp. But for that hand, she was lost
in a nightmare of stretch, strain, pant and gasp, of a
body that was not hers, that responded to primal urg-
ings. The comforting hand, the reassuring voice were
part of it and apart from it. The rhythm increased, un-
bearable, constant, exhausting, and then, wrenched
by a terrible spasm, her body arched. She was sure
she had been torn apart.

The pain was gone. Sweat dripped into her eyes.
She felt almost lifeless, certainly weightless but . . .
serene, strangely enough. Her legs were spread wide,

113

the thigh muscles ached, her vagina throbbed, and all
pain was replaced by the languor of exhaustion. She
became conscious of movement within the room, of a
harsh breathing, a wet splat, and then the tiny gasp
as infant lungs sucked in air and complained mewlingly.

She raised herself on her elbow, one hand reaching
for the sound.

"Roy?" She dashed sweat and damp hair from her
eyes.

Roy's back was to her. When he turned, she was
startled to see a surgical mask across his face, the
translucence of plastic gloves high up his muscled fore-
arms. And, dangling from his left hand, a tiny, arm-
waving inverted form, the cord still attaching it to her.

"Oh, God, Roy, give him to me."

Roy's eyes were full of tears as he laid the child on
her belly.

"I have delivered my son," Roy said in the gentlest
voice. "Don't touch him," he added, knicking her hand
away with the bare part of his forearm. "You're not
sterile."

"He's mine, too," she protested, but did not reach
out.

She watched as Roy deftly tied on the umbilical
cord, swabbed the child's mouth, painted his eyes. As
he tenderly oiled the reddish skin, Claire craned her
neck to glimpse with greedy eyes at the perfection of
the tiny form.

And the baby was perfect, from the delicate kicking
feet to the twitching fists. His head bones were still
pointed, but there was a fineness about the angrily
screwed features. Despite the unconventionality of his
birth, he was alive and obviously healthy. She did not
protest when Roy swathed the child in a receiving
blanket and laid him in the portable crib that he
pushed gently to one side of the bed.

"Now, you." Again all emotion was leached from his
voice.

With the heel of his hand, he pressed into her flat-
tened belly. She screamed for the pain of it and was
seized, to her horror, with another contraction that
brought a flood of tears to her eyes.
114

"You leave me alone!" she cried, feebly batting at
his arms.

"The afterbirth!"

And it was delivered.

Utterly exhausted, she lay back. She felt but did not
move as he sewed the torn skin of her, only vaguely
wondering that he knew how. She was too weary to
help as he cleaned her, changed the soiled sheets. She
was only grateful that the pain and the shame were
over as he covered her tightly bound body with a light
blanket. She could hear the baby snuffling somewhere
in the room and his continuing vigor was more reassur-
ing than anything else. She felt herself drifting off into
sleep and tried to fight it. She must stay awake. She
couldn't afford to sleep. He might try to leave her now
he had the child he had wanted so desperately.

And that thought stuck in her mind. The child Roy
wanted so desperately was born. That was why he had
acted so rashly. His child. His child! She had, after
all, and however deviously, become the mother of his
child.

A tiny voice, insistent and undeniable for all its lack
of volume, roused her. She felt hands turn back the
covers that lay so comfortingly around her. She felt her
upper body lifted, supported with pillows. Drowsily, she
evaded full consciousness until she felt her arm
crooked, felt the scrape of linen against her skin, the
warmth of a small rounded form, hands against her
right nipple, the coolness of a wet sponge, then the
fumbling of small wet lips and the incredible pleasur-
able pain caused by a suckling child.

She opened her eyes to the dim light. Roy was sit-
ting on the edge of her bed, his hand securing her lax
hold on the child. She was fully aware in that instant,
aware and awake. She glanced down at the tiny face,
eyes tight, lips working instinctively for the nourishment
she could feel it drawing from her breast.

Roy did not remove his hand, yet it was not as if
he did not trust Claire. And suddenly she understood
all that must have been driving him since she had
blithely announced her desire to have his child first.
She had taken him, of them all, by surprise. She had
astounded and startled him. She had given him a hope,

II?

a promise that Roy Beach had never even considered,
given the circumstances of his sexuality. She had given
him the child of his own flesh, yet she had not soiled
him with her femininity.

She understood now why he had been unwilling to
trust anyone but himself with the responsibility of de-
livering his child.

The pressure in her other breast was painful. She
disengaged the nipple from the searching, protesting
mouth and quickly shifted the babe, taking a sensuous
delight in the tug and pull of the eager lips as they
fastened on the new food source.

Then she looked up at Roy. She smiled at him as
their eyes met. She felt that she saw directly into his
heart and soul for the first time in their long associa-
tion. With her free hand, she reached for his and
placed it on their son.

"I called Chess, and told him where you are. He
said Ellyot made him understand."

Claire tried to tell him with her eyes that she did,
too, but all she could say was, "Does he plan to come
here?"

There was a quick start in Roy's body and his eyes
plowed deep into hers as if he, too, had to know her
heart, at least this once.

"It would be more peaceful," she added, holding
onto his gaze, "to have the first few days alone, if you
can stand it."

"H / can stand it..."

Claire had to close her eyes against the look of in-
tense joy, of almost painful jubilation in Roy's face. She
felt him lean toward her, across the child, so that the
baby kicked against the constriction. She felt his lips
on hers, her body responding unreasonably to his ben-
ediction.

When she opened her eyes again, he was smiling
down at the babe with untroubled pride and affection.

And that was how it must be forever, Claire re-
flected and deliberately put aside that brief, tantalizing
glimpse of the forbidden paradise.

"Weather on Welladay" stands alone. Judy-Lynn
del Rey when she was Galaxy Magazine's energet-
ic Gal Friday'Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday-Thursday,
gave me a future cover for the magazine around which
to write a story. Not as easy as it might seem. A
helicopter and a tall man stood among what looked like
Christmas-tree decorations on the deck of a great whale-
boat. Surrounded by lots of water! So pick up the ball
and throw it, because you have to account for every
element in that cover somewhere in your story.

It was a mystery to me how to do it, so I made the
story a mystery.

Weather on Welladay

WELLADAY WAS INDEED A WATERY WORLD,

Shahanna thought as the day side of the planet turned
under her ship. Good thing that explorers were obsti-
nate creatures; otherwise the hidden riches of this
stormy world would have gone unnoticed.

She checked her location visually as the ship's com-
puter began to print landing instructions.

"I'm not that stupid," she murmured, noticing the
turbulence of several storm centers that blossomed in
the northern hemisphere of Welladay. She tapped out
Locate for the Rib Reefs, the rocky spine of the planet
that stretched from north to south and broadened into
the Blade, the one permanent installation on the wa-
tery world. "At sunrise, hmmm? Wouldn't you know.
And right in the path of one storm. Well, let's beat it
in." She began to punch out landing coordinates.

At that moment, the proximity alarm rang. She hit
the Enlarge toggle of the screen control just in time to
see two telltale blips--the small satellite that ought to
be in orbit near her, and the larger one that certainly
ought not to be in Welladan skies. Suddenly her ship
rocked with the violence of a direct hit. Shahanna re-
mained conscious just long enough to hit the survival
button on the armrest.

Odis planted his flippered foot on the young whale's
blunt snout and shoved.

"This is no time for nuzzling, nuisance," he roared,
as the force of his thrust sent the baby backfinning.
Whales liked to be talked to--roared at--though there
was little chance they understood more than the tone

'118

of voice. Some fishmen denied even that much compre-
hension. "Almost finished now, Mother," Odis bellowed
reassuringly at the massive creature whose thyroid
glands he was tapping.

The indicator dial of the long-beaked suction pump
reached the red area, whereupon, with more deftness
than others gave him credit for, Odis broke the con-
nection and sealed the beaker. He closed the tap mouth
and noted the date of this tap in paint-pen above the
metal insert. Old tap-dates had faded but the new paint
would glow for the three months necessary for a ma-
ture whale to generate more vital radioactive iodine in
its thyroid gland.

Odis touched the zoom button on the drone's remote
control, then scrawled the whale's registry number be-
side the luminous date on the beaker before holding it
for the drone to record. That formality observed, he
scratched the female's rubbery upper lip where the
scales had been torn. What kind of a fight had she been
in? Well, at least the wound had healed.

Once again her child tried to nose Odis' fishboat out
of the way. Chuckling over the creature's antics, Odis
climbed up the boat's ventral fin and over the back to
the hatch. Ducking below, he stored the precious
beaker of radioactive iodine in the chemfoam-protected
carrier.

Back on the fishboat's snub-nosed brow, Odis
frowned at the sight of the school of whales beginning
to melt away from the neighborhood. He had been out
since early morning, tracking them down, and spent
a good hour easing into the herd before he had tried to
tap one. First, he'd pounded affectionately on the snouts
of the mammals he knew as well by scar marks as by
registration code. Two had shied away from him so
wildly that he began to worry that this group had al-
ready been milked by that fardling pirate. When he
was finally able to draw alongside the old blue-scarred
cow and do a light tap, he had decided that their
weather-sense was all that was making them skittish.

Between the freakish storms of Welladay and the
fardling pirates, Odis growled to himself as he squinted
toward the darkening horizon, they might as well pull
the plug on operations here. He frowned. Where else

119

would he find a world more to his liking? A task more
suited to him, a man born and bred on a high-gravity
planet? Or creatures big enough not to suffer from his
inordinate strength?

Pleased with himself, he stepped on the release for
the outboard panel and began to beam toward Shoul-
der Blade for a weather report.

The instrumentation was on a pole that looked like a
colorful Christmas tree when it was lit up--which was
now. It was recording various local indications of the
weather. But when he tried to reach Okker in his har-
bormaster's lookout at the Eye of the lagoon, the beam
crackled with interference. So the easterly storm had
hit them. Even with a band of weather satellites, one
couldn't always be sure of weather on Welladay.

Odis tagged the playback in case Okker had broad-
cast while he was tapping the whale. He whistled as
he listened to Okker's sour report of mach-storm warn-
ings, the advice that all vessels return to Shoulder at
cruising depth and hold at shelf-level until recall--
the local storm over Shoulder seemed to be only a
squall. The warning was repeated twice with additional
ominous details on the mach-storm's wind velocity,
estimated drift, and duration.

Odis grunted. He could just imagine Okker's disgust
at relaying such a message. Tallav, the maggoty Plane-
tary Administrator, had probably been at Okker's el-
bow. With the exercise of tolerance, Odis could
understand the reasons for Tallav's ineffectualness. A
meek man, he was not suited to a blustery, stormy
world like Welladay, even if affairs proceeded nor-
mally. But Tallav was caught in a fladding bind. Some-
one was pirating the main source of Welladan wealth
so that no substantial revenue had been garnered from
the whales in months. Result: Supplies could not be
paid for, and credit had been suspended. What with
the depredations caused by pirates and various natural
catastrophes, only three fishboats were operable. Re-
quests from legitimate sources for the priceless radio-
active iodine had become demands: Urgent! Top
Priority. Gray phage was endemic and periodically epi-
demic. The only specific vaccine was a dilute suspen-
sion of the radioactive iodine. In addition to the risk

120

of tapping to death the few whales they could now find,
Welladan fishmen were constricted by lack of operable

craft.

The two best fishmen, Odis and Murv--a newcomer
on a Debt-Contract--had been sent out in an attempt
to find and tap enough of the valuable substance to
make up at least one critically needed shipment. What-
ever Odis and Murv could get today, therefore, was
crucial. Fleetingly, Odis wished they could charge a
hardship premium, but the price of the iodine had been
fixed by Federation officials who evidently were too
concerned with other crises to pay attention to repeated
Welladan requests to investigate piracy.

So here was timid Tallav, calling the fishmen back
because there was a mach-storm brewing in the west.
Odis ran a quick check of the instrumentation on the
approaching storm, now boiling black and ochre on the

horizon.

As he evaluated the readings, he maneuvered his
ship toward the nearest adult whale. He could get one
more tap completed before he would have to duck and
run home. Fishboats were sturdily designed for
Welladan waters, to race on hydrofoils with the scaly
spawn of her seas, to plunge trenchward with the
whales, to endure the savagery of a sudden squall, to
wallow, whalelike, within the school itself without being
attacked by a nervous male.

He coasted along the port side of the mammal,
rather pleased that the creature was not shying off as
did its schoolmates. The painted code above the tap-
vent had faded completely, so Odis toyed with the idea
of getting at least a beaker and a half, as he made his
preparations to tap.

It was then that he noticed the strange color of the
scales. At first, he thought it was caused by the light
--the sky had already changed with the approach of
the storm. As he looked around, there wasn't another
whale in sight; they'd all raced away, north and south,
deep from the storm center. This whale wasn't moving
because it was close to death.

Cursing with pent-up anger, Odis stomped below,
retrieved the beaker he had just drawn, and prepared
to pump the contents into the sick mammal. Would it

121

be enough? Was the gesture merely a waste of fluid
now--fluid as precious to the life of Welladay as to
this mammal? Odis refused to consider this a waste. In
an angry scrawl he painted the date and the circum-
stances on the whale, adding a crude skull and cross-
bones.

He stepped back then, clenching his teeth, railing
against the brutality of the pirates. He wondered bit-
terly just how many more beasts had been tapped dry,
just how many more black, bloated corpses would roll
in on the fresh tides after the storm?

He waited, hoping for some sign of change in the
creature. There was no way of knowing how long ago
the tap had occurred--hours, days? Or how swiftly the
infusion would correct the whale's deficiency.

A fresh wind came up, and the outboard panel chat-
tered metallically, then began to crackle with an au-
thoritative noise. A craft approaching? Odis scanned
the clouds. Suddenly a second drone broke into view,
higher and north of him. He glanced down at the sea-
viewer, waiting for the indication that another fishboat
approached. The drone whistled overhead, but the sea-
viewer remained empty.

Murv was the only other fishman out! Where was he
that he would send his drone back alone? Had he been
caught by mach-violence? A wilder shriek tore the air;

and the whale reacted with a nervous bobbing, then
pulled away from the fishboat.

Odis swung the Christmas tree, got a fix on the
sound, and followed it. The intruder was high up but
lancing downward, downward and right into the mach-
storm. He nipped the track toggle, keeping the out-
board panel lined up with the visual trace of the
spaceship until it disappeared into the clouds.

That boiling trail had come from nothing based on
Welladay. And it was heading away from the only set-
tlement on the water world. Odis retracted the out-
board panel. As he climbed down the ladder, he shot
a final look at the whale, now moving slowly in a
northerly direction. No, the iodine had not been a
waste. If the creature could just make it out of the
storm's path, it could feed itself back to strength on the
plankton in the northern waters.
122

Odis slammed the hatch down and searched the pi-
lot's couch just as the computer printed out the in-
truder's course: straight into the storm, directly in line
with the only other permanent landfall. Crown Lagoon.
The realization was particularly bitter to Odis, for that
was the direction from which Murv's drone had just

come,

Slowly, Odis tapped out a new course for the fish-
boat. Not back to the safety of Shoulder Blade, but
straight into the storm, directly on the intruder's tail.
Then he fed into the computer the details that Okker
had transmitted on the roach-storm. As the printout
chattered, Odis sank back into the padded couch, his
suspicions confirmed. In approximately five hours, the
eye of the mach-storm would be centered over the gi-
gantic old volcano whose mouth formed a twenty-kilo-
wide lagoon. The shards and lava plateaus of its slopes
were like a galactic-sized crown, thrown down just
above the equator of Welladay in the shallow meadows

of the western seas.

Murv could hold up in the deep beyond the island's
shores--safe enough even with a mach-storm lashing
deep into the ocean--until the eye of the storm cov-
ered Crown. Murv could then surface, deliver the
stolen iodine to the ship which had sneaked in under
cover of the storm. Well, Murv would do well to leave
with that pirate. Once the Investigator got here--and
the planet was registered as bankrupt and taken over
by the Federation, Welladay would be no place for
any freedom-loving man. Finds! Murv must have
enough of the iodine on him to buy a planet. He sure
had sold out Welladay!

Grimly Odis settled down for the long run. He'd
stay on the surface and run on the hydrofoil as long
as he could, at least until the storm's violence forced
him to the relatively quieter, but slower depths. He
had to intercept Murv before the traitor got the iodine

off-planet.

But where had the man hidden the valuable sub-
stance all this time? Every possible crevice on Shoulder
Blade had been searched repeatedly once the fishermen
realized what was happening. Hadn't Tallav initiated

123

the drone-escort to prevent any fishman from tapping
too deeply? How the flads had Murv managed?

True, he had sent his drone back. But you couldn't
tap a whale in the midst of a storm and he was within
his rights. Indeed, Tallav would have screamed if Murv

had kept the drone.

Odis leaned forward, tapped his own drone's con-
trols. He printed out a message for it to transmit once
the squall lifted over Shoulder Blade, then sent it to
track him miles above the coming storm. He might just
find it useful to have a drone in the eye. He would

risk Tallav's tantrums.
As there was nothing more he could do now, Odis

settled down to a short nap.

The old survey charts had better be right about that
underwater channel into the lagoon, Murv thought as
he listened to the stress noises of the fishboat and
grimly watched the danger lights blink warnings. The
fathometer marked the unsteady ascent as the craft
bucked tidal pulls and storm rips. He must be nearing

the archipelago.

The straps that held Murv firmly to the pilot's seat
cut into his flesh and he cursed absently as he began
to match the chart to sea-viewer.

Blighted planet! The whole thing had appeared so
fardling simple. He was used to risks, trained to sur-
mount them. So he had opted to contract as a fishman,
to look around for a while, spot the trouble, and then
back out again, ready for more demanding work. On
a watery planet, with only one permanent settlement,
and only one product that was in great demand
throughout the galaxy, what could have been simpler?
He had not, however, counted on such a trivial detail
as weather. Nor had he counted on the mimsy-pimsy
fardling parasite of a Planetary Administrator coming
up with a drone escort to prove his fishmen were not
the murdering pirates. That wrinkle had restricted
Murv's investigations, but it didn't make him trust
Tallav. Murv knew better than to trust anyone.

Furthermore, Murv had not counted on sympathiz-
ing with the great whales. After he had been taught
to milk them, after he had been assigned a school, it

124

had annoyed the hell out of him to see the rotting car-
casses of whales that had trustingly let humans tap
them to death. They even lined up to get milked. No,
the waste--the fladding waste of it--galled Murv the
most.

He must be nearing the tunnel mouth; he could feel
the fishboat being sucked relentlessly toward the ba-
saltic shelf. His fingers flew over the pitch and yaw
controls, decreased the play in the helm, and ignored
the neck-jarring rolls. On the fathometer and on the
roiled viewscreen in front of him, the bottom of the
ocean met the ramparts of the old volcano in a solid
wall of tortured lava!

Shahanna was roused by the shrieking hiss of the
insistent wind. She opened her eyes to grayness, to the
realization that the crash foam was dissipating, to the
knowledge that she was still alive and breathing. In
spite of the cushioning foam and the padding of her
seat, she felt thoroughly wrung out. Motion was pain-
ful. She turned her head, groaning as stiff muscles pro-
tested. A solitary yellow light gleamed on the control
panel, then blinked off as she watched. The ship had
sent out its death knell, the last thing this type of space-
craft was programmed to do before all its systems
failed.

Shahanna reached with an enfeebled hand to her
side pouch, fumbled for a stimulant and a pain de-
pressor. Clumsily, she jabbed the drugs into her arm
and then, gasping at the discomfort even that slight mo-
tion caused, lay back. The drugs worked swiftly. She
staggered to her feet and worked her muscles, relieved
that nothing had broken or split. Her wrist chrono
showed that some eight hours had elapsed since the
unexpected attack. Automatically, she reached toward
the log recorder.

"All systems dead, gal," she reminded herself, and
looked out the plastight window.

Jagged black rock surrounded the nose of the scout
and sheets of water scudded across the window.

How lucky can a gal get? She thought. I cracked up
on land? Shahanna frowned. "Shoulder?" The Rib
Reefs had been half a planet away when she had been

shot down. There was no possible entry she could have
made that would land her on Shoulder. But she re-
membered some other semi-permanent land masses on
the charts, if one could dignify a wayward archipelago
or a transient volcano as land mass.

The lock was jammed solid, Shahanna discovered,
but the escape hatch was clear. The little scoutship
rocked under her feet, and she realized it had been
rocking ever since she had come to. The pitch of the
wind had risen a few notes, too, and water sloshed
across the viewpane in a constant fall. If she were on
an island in one of those archipelagos, she was on a
very precarious one.

Shahanna wasted no further time on speculation.
She quick-sealed her orders onto her ribs, slapped addi-
tional supplies to her belt, shrugged into an all-purpose
suit. That done, she harnessed on a life-support tank
and donned her headgear and the water-aids, then
punched the destruct on her ship's instrumentation and
threw open the escape hatch. She got a face full of
wave and drew back sputtering and choking. Un-
daunted, she rearranged her mask and took a second
look.

Gaunt black fingers of stone held the ship. But the
rising tides, wind-lashed and moon-churned, rocked the
boat resting in its impromptu dry dock, grabbed it with
a greedy urgency. What remained of the aft section of
the ship was rocking slowly down into the water.

"That guy was a good shot--cleared off my engine.
But I'm a live one." Another wave slapped across her
face. She ducked instinctively and then, with a deft
movement, was over the side of the ship, its bulk pro-
tecting her from a worse battering.

She could see beyond her ship, through the spaces of
the finger rocks. It wasn't a comforting view, for the
huge expanse of water was equally wild. A grinding
sound reminded her that she had little time for delib-
eration. The ship slipped further down the rocky palm.
Shahanna saluted it, promising retribution, and clam-
bered up through the rock fingers. She didn't see that
an outcropping of rock caught and held the forward
section of her sliding ship above the water.

"This is the damnedest terrain" Shahanna said aloud

126

as she scrambled higher, grateful for the tough fabric
of her gloves as she found handholds on the razor-
edged shards of rock. The rain was coming down in
such heavy torrents that she could barely see a few
feet in front of her. The wind pounded her with ham-
mer blows. She would not last long in this maelstrom,
Shahanna decided, peering around for some sort of
shelter against a rocky ledge. Instinct directing her,
she climbed doggedly to such a height as she could
manage on rockpile. The absence of water pouring over
her and the slackening of the wind indicated a sanctu-
ary, and she was inside the little cave before she even
realized it existed. With an inarticulate moan, she
crawled far enough inside to be out of the reach of the
elements. Sighing, she rolled onto her back as exhaus-
tion claimed a battered mind and body.

Planetary Adminstrator Tallav watched anxiously as
the nets drew the battered space craft into the safety
of the Broken Rib Hangars. Almost on cue, rain in
blinding sheets plummeted until the dome over the liv-
ing quarters beyond the hangars looked like a water-
fall and the storm drains began to fill with alarming
speed. Tallav shuddered at the ferocity of the floods.

You'd think twelve-foot-deep dikes would be ample
anywhere--except on Welladay, he thought as he
started down the ramp to welcome the eagerly awaited
Investigator.

It wouldn't do to appear nervous, Tallev thought.
Might cause suspicion. Nor should he appear irritated
that it had taken Federation such an unconscionably
long time to dispatch an Investigator. Didn't they real-
ize the consequences of letting this out-and-out piracy
of the vital radioactive iodine go on for so long? Surely
his messages had been explicit, his reports detailed. But
to wait until Central Credit actually suspended all ship-
ments to Welladay--that was disgraceful. Disgraceful
and unjust.

Tallav slid back the portal and stepped out into the
rock-hewn chamber that housed the drones and visi-
tors' shuttles. Such noise as the crewmen made in se-
curing the ship was lost in the vast room. Tallav was a
little surprised at the Investigator's physical appearance.

127

Not that he expected a full-uniform for a minor planet
like Welladay, but an Investigator ought to appear in
something more than a faded one-piece shipsuit.

"I'm Tallav, Planetary Administrator, Grade 3-B,"
he said in a firm voice, saluting the new arrival with
what he felt was the proper deference. Investigators
were not exactly equal in status to Planetary Adminis-
trators but they had superplenary powers which they
could invoke if circumstances warranted. "And you are
Investigator ..."

"Brack's the name.

Tallav was a little annoyed by the very casual re-
turn of his salute.

"Your arrival couldn't be more opportune," Tallav
went on, indicating the exit to Brack. "We haven't so
much as a drop of the radioactive iodine left, and two
top-priority emergency capsules came in just before
you got here. The tone was rather high-handed. You
timed that a mite close, if I may say so."

The Investigator shot him an odd look as he ducked
under the portal. Tallav dogged the lock wondering if
the Investigator thought he was being critical.

"Storms on Welladay are unusually violent," he con-
tinued. "That's why we net down all craft."

Brack snorted and let Tallav lead the way to the of-
fice.

"If you'll just come this way. Investigator, my tapes
and personnel are entirely at your disposal. We want
this piracy stopped immediately--"

"In that storm?"

"Well, no, of course not. I mean, that is ... surely
my communications gave you ample facts from which
to draw some conclusions? After all, there aren't very
many places on Welladay from which a pirate could
operate."

"No, there aren't."

"Now, here we are. May I offer you some refresh-
ment? Or would you permit yourself to try some off-
world stimulant? I'm afraid the commissary is a little
low--tedious, this business of being boycotted until
these pirates are ^apprehended and the iodine is col-
lected properly."

128

"I could do with some hot protein. Natural ... if
you can supply it."

Tallav decided not to take offense at the suggestion
that Welladay could not feed its population decently.
He roused the mess hall personnel and ordered a meal
from his private stores. No sooner had he turned, smil-
ing, toward the Investigator, than the corn unit beeped
urgently.

His hand hovered over the unit to silence it. Then
he saw it was Hangar calling. The dolts hadn't man-
aged to damage the Investigator's ship, had they?

"Well, what is it?"

"Drone K-Star is back. Or rather, what's left of it
is back," the hangarmaster reported.

"Who was that one assigned to?"

"Murv."

"Are all the other drones back?" he asked, inad-
vertently glancing at the waterfall that covered his plas-
glas wall.

"No, sir!"

"What? Who could still be afloat in this?"

"Odis."

"Odis? But he ... Get off the line. I must talk to
the harbormaster."

Angrily, he jabbed the new call. "Okker, has Murv
got in yet?"

"No, nor Odis either. Just like that new-worlder to
try and send his drone back through a storm," old
Okker said.

"What were their destinations?"

"You ordered 'em out yourself. Told 'em to milk
anything they could catch."

"Well, you knew a storm was coming up. Didn't you
call them back?" It was difficult for Tallav to restrain
his irritation with the old fool. No respect for status.
Just because he had been one of the original fishmen
of Welladay, he thought he knew more about every-
thing than a trained Planetary Administrator.

"What do you think, Tallav? I know my job as
harbormaster. Besides, Odis is smart enough to run
submerged for the eye and drift back with it till it
disperses."

Tallav shuddered inwardly, trying hard not to notice

129

the half-smile on the Investigator's lips at the impu-
dence of his subordinate.

"And Murv?" Tallav was compelled to ask. He dis-
trusted the new-worlder and would like nothing better
than for him to turn out to be their pirate. He looked
the part and he was obviously opting to go off-planet
as soon as he could. That was the trouble with the
Debt Contractees--men forced to accept undesirable-
world employment never took any real interest in their
work.

"I can't speak for him."

"Why didn't you report their absence when the storm
broke?"

"Did. You weren't in. Down meeting that snooper
you sent for so long ago."

"Investigator Brack is present in my office."

"Good for him," Okker replied, ignoring the frost in
Tallav's voice. "Now let me get back to my Eye. That
damned fool Sharkey's out, too."

Brack was suddenly very alert.

"The Chief?" Tallav was now fully alarmed. Losing
Sharkey was unthinkable. The man was a sheer gen-
ius with the fishboats, able to repair absolute wrecks.
If he lost the engineer, he might just as well resign.
He would never get a replacement at the price he could
force Sharkey to take.

"You can't test a patched hull in dry dock, you
know," Okker was reminding him needlessly.

"Yes, yes. Keep me posted."

"Don't I always?" The connection was broken at the
harbormaster's end and the meal arrived at the same
instant.

"And you say there's not a drop of the radioactive
iodine in store at the moment?" Brack asked as he
attacked his food with more speed than manners.

"Not a drop. In an attempt to fill these . . . these
demands," Tallav gestured toward the message capsule
shells, "I sent out my two best fishmen."

"Into that?"

There was no doubt of the Investigator's disapproval.

"No, not into that. That storm developed some hours
after they had cleared port. Even with weather satel-
lites keeping constant guard, storms can come up with

130

frightening speed. You see, when there are two or more
moons in conjunction, particularly with one of the other
planetary masses in the system .. ."

"Agreed, agreed. I know my meteorology. So that
means that the only iodine is either still in your whales
or preferably riding out a storm."

"And hidden somewhere in the possession of those
pirates."

"You have proof of piracy?"

"Proof? Of course. Take, for example, the rotting
hulks of whales who have been deliberately and wan-
tonly milked to death."

"No more than that?"

"What more is necessary?" Tallav was appalled at
the man's obtuseness.

"You've got. . . how many fishmen?" The Investiga-
tor's smile was condescending.

"No Welladan fishman would milk a whale to
death!" Tallav sat up stiffly to protest that possibility.

"You're sure?"

"Very sure. And just to prevent such a ridiculous
accusation being leveled against my subordinates, I
took precautionary steps. You heard my hangarmaster
report a drone's return? When it became apparent that
someone was tapping the whales to death, I initiated
a drone-escort for every fishboat. The drone is pro-
grammed to hover while tapping is in process, taking
careful note of the quantity taken from the glands and
making a record of the number of the mature whale.
They all receive a tattoo, you see. There could be no
way to escape such vigilance."

The Investigator shrugged. "But didn't I understand
that two ships are still out, and only one drone back
in? Murv, wasn't that the name? If there's no drone
watching him right now . . ."

"In this weather? The turbulence covers the entire
northern hemisphere. You couldn't possibly tap in this
weather. Besides, the whales have undoubtedly sounded
for protection."

"Northern hemisphere, you said? What about down
south?"

"No whales in any great number. The sea is shallow
131

there except for the Great Longitudinal Trench, and
that's too deep for fishboats anyway."

"Who's this Sharkey?"

"Our Chief Engineer. Marvelous talent with any
kind of engine or vehicle. Keeps our boats afloat and
our drones aloft. In fact, he helped rig the control de-
vice so that the drone hovers the instant its linked fish-
boat comes to a stop.

"Sharkey, huh? Appropriate name for a water
worlder."

"Beg pardon? Oh, yes, I see. Ha ha."

"He's out without a drone."

"Oh yes, just checking a hull. You can't do that in
dry dock, you know. And we're very low on vital ma-
terials until Central Credit releases our long-overdue
shipment. Besides, he may be a genius with an engine
but he couldn't tap a whale to save his life, even if
the weather were calm enough to do so."

"How so?"

Tallav leaned back. These were questions he could
answer. "Came here originally as a contractee. Whales
didn't take to him. Couldn't even get near enough to
them to do a tap. They got to the point of being able
to identify the pulse of his fishboat, and they scattered
whenever he approached." Tallav didn't believe that
himself, but the other fishmen did and swore to it.

"The whales didn't take to him?" Brack echoed
Tallav's skepticism.

"Oh, they've as much rudimentary intelligence as
other forms of mammalian sea life. They evidently
develop an affection--or dislike--for certain fishmen.
Odis, for instance, and old Okker when he still tapped
and even Murv, the contractee, have had no difficulty
going deep into schools--until recently, that is."

"Very interesting." The investigator squinted
thoughtfully at the watery plas-glas. "I'm sure you
won't mind if I take a walk about."

"No, no," Tallav was on his feet too.

"On my own, Tallav. I'd like to talk to the harbor-
master. Take a look at the docks and quarters. You
know."

Tallav did know and, though he disliked the notion
that a Central Worlds Investigator would be ... snoop-

1'32

ing--there was no other word for it--if such activity
resulted in the apprehension of the pirates, he must
ignore his feelings.

"And have you a counter?" Brack added, smiling
slightly, his hand outstretched.

"Counter? Whatever for?" Tallav was shocked. The
very idea that he, the Planetary Administrator, might
not have conducted the most extensive search for any
radioactive iodine illegally hidden anywhere in Shoul-
der, that his estimation of the fishmen might be erro-
neous, that . . . Fumbling with indignation, he turned
his own handcounter over to Brack.

"Now announce my presence," Brack pointed toward
the corn-unit.

Rather stunned, Tallav depressed the All-stations
switch and informed Shoulder Blade that Investigator
Brack was to be given aid and assistance in his efforts
to uncover the pirates.

Shahanna stirred in her sleep, became aware first of
the rough surface on which she was bedded and then
of the closeness of the ragged walls. Other senses also
registered information--the freshness of the air com-
bined with moist rock, the curious yellow light that fil-
tered in and the assault of complete silence. She sat up,
then painfully aware of muscular discomfort and stiff-
ness, crawled out of the shallow cave and looked
around.

To the right and forward, massive black and gray
clouds, their churning innards clearly visible, scudded
beyond the outer rim of the old volcano. All around
she saw the diffused vibrant yellow of cloud-strained
light--bathing the surrounding area with a strange
clarity that made the view of this archipelago and its
lagoon crystal clear.

Far off on the left, Shahanna discerned the ap-
proaching rim of the other half of this storm. She
looked back at the receding section, trying to estimate
the extent of the eye and to figure out how much time
she might have before the onslaught of the rest of the
storm.

She shrugged. She had few options. Her shallow
cave had sheltered her well enough up to now. If only
133

it would protect her just a while longer. Suddenly some-
thing bobbed up on the waters of the mirror-sleek la-
goon below her. Instinctively, Shahanna ducked down
and peered cautiously over the obscuring rock.

"The size of it!" she gasped. The sea life of her home
world boasted no monster like this whale of Welladay.

Quickly, she reviewed what she knew of the crea-
tures. The ashmen of the planet milked their glands
for precious radioactive iodine, by inserting a surgical
tap into the gland-sac. Therefore, they must be used to
humans. So, perhaps she could figure out a way to ac-
tivate the tap herself. Her hand went to her belt and
then fell. Even if she could tap the whale, with her
ship a wreck on the bottom of the sea, how would she
get the iodine off-world?

She stared at the floating monster, blinked as a piece
of its head appeared to lift. "A fishboat." She watched
as a man's figure became outlined blackly against the
reflecting water.

She grabbed her hand weapon and dropped three
'shots forward of the fish snout, waving her arms in a
broad semaphore to attract the Welladan's attention.
To her amazement, he dove back into his ship. Within
seconds the craft submerged.

Cursing her bad luck, wondering how else she could
have attracted his attention, and annoyed at such a
cowardly retreat, Shahanna began to pick her way
down the basaltic rocks. She couldn't imagine that he
would rather brave the storm than face one lone oc-
cupant of the volcano. Surely he'd surface again.

Of all the rotten luck, Murv was growling to him-
self. The air in the fishboat was rank with human and
machine stenches. He was weary and sore from the
rough transit of the old channel. The boat was leaking
from half a dozen seams which he had better seal be-
fore the second half of the storm hit. Of course the la-
goon would be quieter than the open sea and he had
figured on having the chance both to air the boat and
to patch it while the eye of the mach-storm passed
Crown Lagoon.

His sonar indicated an overhang along the south
coast of the lagoon: Good. He would be undetectable

134

there and could find out who that trigger-happy ape
was. And if it just so happened that he was the pirate
--stranded?

Pirate? He was jumping to conclusions. Flads, who
else would be on Crown Lagoon in the middle of a
storm. Tallav had only ordered two fishboats out, and
the figure on the rocks was too rangy to be Odis!

Murv's irritation quickly dissolved. He found himself
eagerly scrambling into his gear. What luck! What
sheer unadulterated luck! To find that passage into the
lagoon itself and to spot the pickup. Flads, where had
the pirate hid his ship? Crown Lagoon was one
fardling big place.

The unmistakable triple cracks of a hand weapon
had echoed around the lagoon, unnaturally amplified
by the volcanic rock hollows, the water, and the cu-
rious flat calm of the storm's eye. The shots were dis-
tinctly audible to Odis, busy mooring his fishboat on
the outer rim of the Crown. He tapped the outboard
instrumentation button. Odis quickly called the drone
down from its circling security above the stormy mass.
If only he could actually catch the pirates in the act of
transferring the stolen iodine! Even at speeds no human
could tolerate, the distance was still too great for the
drone to descend in time. So he slowed its descent.
It wouldn't do for the drone to be observed from the
ground.

Three shots, he reflected. A signal? He glanced up-
ward at the yellow-clouded skies. There was plenty of
time for them to make a transfer before the winds
picked up again. And he would have plenty of time to
find that space shuttle. There was more than one way
to milk a whale!

He secured the outboard gear and went below for
his suit and water-aids. He snapped a remote-control
drone unit to his belt, a knife to his calf sheath and a
buckle-and-line sphere to his shoulder harness. He
carefully checked the assist-tanks before he strapped
them on. Then, jumping into the water, he began to
swim with rapid and powerful strokes around the
southern edge of the outer Crown. He knew that he

13?

would find better mooring for a space shuttle on the
lower south edge of the island.

When she finally reached the shores of the lagoon,
Shahanna kicked impotently at the coarse black sands.
Nowhere was there any trace of that fishboat--nary a
wake nor a ripple, bubble or slag.

"Slimy coward. Twice coward! What were you run-
ning from?"

She paused. Maybe Welladans were under attack
from the same ship that had fired on her. Maybe that's
why the repeated demands for the iodine had been ig-
nored. Perhaps that coward had merely acted with sen-
sible caution. Oh ho, that put a new light on the
fishman's retreat. And, if he thought she was one of the
invaders, she'd never see him again. That was certain!

Disgusted, she sank down to the beach and leaned
wearily against a convenient rock. She forced herself
to rest, to drain off the poisons of fatigue caused by
her difficult descent. Even though this planet did have
a lighter gravity than her own, her efforts had been
tiring.

Displacing enough water to inundate the narrow
beach and half drown Shahanna, the fishboat suddenly
surfaced alarmingly close to the shore. Choking from
the unexpected drenching, the girl staggered to her feet,
too furious to be frightened by the grotesque pseudo-
fisheyes that glared at her from the boat's snout.

"That's the last, remember," a rough voice yelled at
her. "And remember, if I'm not off this fardling world
in five revolutions, I set the Investigators on you when
they get here. And they're coming."

Shahanna jumped back as a large plas-foamed cube
landed heavily at her feet.

"Wait," she cried as the fish-snout began turning
away from her.

"Can't wait, you fool. And neither can you if you
want to get off this fardling planet before the storm
socks us in again. Grab that stuff and get off-world."

Shahanna watched as the hatch slammed down and
water foamed over the fins of the fishboat. She looked
back at the plas-foamed cube and saw its shock web-
bing--black triangles against the gray stuff. Was that

136

the kind of protection given valuable space shipments?

She dropped to her knees, her arms involuntarily
starting to grab up the cube. My God! She pulled back.
It just had to be--a cubeful of radioactive iodine! Li-
ters of it, just thrown at her feet. She threw back her
head and laughed: "Well, I got what I came for, cer-
tainly. They've got to give me marks for that!"

She rose to her feet, absently brushed the clinging
dark sands from her legs. Her ship had already sent
out the death knell. That would eventually connect
with a civilized agency which would be compelled to
report it to the authorities, and then a search would be
inaugurated. She had supplies in her belt for several
weeks, in addition to what the sea could provide. Per-
haps, and her chuckle was one of pure amusement
now, she had only five revolutions to wait until the
error in delivery was discovered.

Suddenly she felt much better. With a deft twist, she
yanked the heavy cube to her back and began to re-
trace her steps to the shallow cave. That would be a
difficult hole to find, but there she'd be safe from the
storm. Her ascent was slower and far more treacherous
than her descent because the cube was an unbalanc-
ing burden, its weight a strain even on her heavy-world
strength. Shahanna had been chosen for this mission for
many reasons, not the least of which was her often-
demonstrated tenacity. She continued her climb up-
ward.

Murv watched the delivery take place with a mix-
ture of satisfaction and irritation. He was too far away
to make out the features of either party, or the code
letters of the fishboat fins. He took careful note of the
odd gait of the receiver--definitely an off-worlder,
someone used to a heavier gravitational pull. Murv
knew to a kilogram how heavy that iodine cube was,
yet the off-worlder had shouldered it with ease.

Muscles or not, Murv decided, that was going to be
a fardling hard climb. The pirate must have ducked
into the lagoon at the onset of the storm, probably in a
small shuttlecraft. Must be a fladding good pilot, too,
Murv grudgingly admitted, to land on a stormy
Welladan sea, ride out a mach-storm and then trip

137

along like that. Murv glanced over his shoulder toward
the west. The black and ochre clouds were still low on
the horizon but coming in fast. He grinned to himself.
He could, of course, shoot the pirate now, take the
radioactive iodine back to Shoulder, and get off this
fardling world for good. Everything legal and above-
board; no need to blow his cover. But that did not solve
the second part of the puzzle: Who was the illegal tap-
per?

So a dead pirate informed on no one. But tackling
an off-worlder presented other problems, even to a man
adept at rough fighting from combats on a dozen outer
planets. Well, there was more than one way to milk a
whale, Murv decided, and started after the pirate.

Flads! Why hadn't the fishboat swung just slightly
port or starboard so he could see at least one letter of
the code? And why hadn't the fishman emerged further
from the hatch? Murv could have identified him with
one clear glimpse of profile. Murv cursed again, re-
membering that the only other man out when the storm
broke was Odis. He was cynic enough to believe any
man capable of any deed, given the right combination
of pressure and opportunity. But Odis? His love for the
great whales was exceeded only by his love of this
drenched world. He was the last man Murv would have
suspected of treachery. Still, you never knew what went
on inside a man's head: everyone had a price.

That settled it for Murv. He could not kill the out-
worlder until he had discovered the identity of both
traitor and pirate--and learned, to his own satisfaction,
why Odis tapped whales to death.

To Shahanna, time was shortened to the span in-
volved in a simple physical effort. First one foot must
lift, its toes finding a hold, somehow, on the treacher-
ous rock. The toes must then grip long enough to tense
the calf muscles which must inform the long thigh mus-
cles of the effort required of them. Arms must, some-
how, manage to retain their grip on the shock-webbing
on the unquestionably valuable and impossibly heavy
cube.

She was only vaguely aware of other pressures: the
wind beginning to rise, gustily plucking at the over-

138

balancing burden on her back now and then, or lightly
cooling the sweat that trickled down her face and into
her suit. The light was changing, darkening as the other
side of the storm neared the island. She was completely
unaware of being under observation or that her tenacity
implied far greater familiarity with the terrain than she
actually possessed. An innate sense of direction was
another of her assets. Once she had been to any place
on any world, she was able to retrace her steps to it,
just as she was now heading toward the anonymous
caim hidden.

She dragged herself and her burden into the cave
and then, with a sigh of complete fatigue, curled around
the cube, one hand seemingly welded to the shock web.
That protective reflex as well as the darkening skies
prevented Murv from locating her when he finally real-
ized that she was no longer climbing ahead of him.

He had followed cautiously, therefore slowly, and
was not unduly alarmed when he could no longer see
the straining figure with its awkward load. At first, he
wondered how the pirate could have gotten so far
ahead of him. Then he reached the highest ridge of the
southern escarpment and realized that the pirate must
have taken cover. From here, the island jutted outward
and downward.

At that moment Murv caught sight of the half-
submerged craft. "Pladding stupid fool. He isn't going
anywhere." He laughed. "But then is he?"

Carefully Murv worked over to the ship, using the
tumbled rockscape to cover his advance, keeping close
watch on the open hatch lest the pirate discover him
prematurely. He agilely reached the open lock, listen-
ing for any sounds of activity within. It wasn't a large
vessel but a single cabin job. He gave the deserted in-
terior one sweeping look. So, the guy hadn't made it
back. He'd gone to ground somewhere up in the crags.

Murv began to pick his way up again, following
Shahanna's original route so, his back to the sea, he
was unaware that he was being observed.

Odis had allowed the tides to pull him back under
water, deep enough so that his progress could not be
seen. He surfaced again, twice, in fact, looking for a
way up the rock face so that he could outflank Murv.

139

He was annoyed that it was Murv up there on the
rocks. Annoyed but puzzled. Murv gave every appear-
ance of a man hiding. But why should he hide if he
were the pirate's contact? And where was the iodine?
Where, too, was Murv's fishboat?
Glancing up at the clouds scudding and boiling on
the horizon, Odis considered his next move. He had
kept the drone just above the cloud cover, but now he
directed it down to the northern part of the island to
take a skimming run, hopefully to detect Murv's
craft. The wind was rising enough to cover the whis-
tling sound of a drone. Odis flipped on the visor and
blinked at the rushing ocean picture on the tiny screen.
He sent it twice over the northern arc of the island and
it spotted his own boat moored to the east. But he
found no trace of another fishboat, either visually or
sonically. So he sent the drone aloft, remembering to
check the wind velocity to be sure the drone was at a
safe altitude. Then he sat down to think.

No ship. Had Murv lost his fishboat in the storm?
Murv had a tendency to be too quick. After all, he
wasn't all that accustomed to Welladan storm condi-
tions. Of course, Murv might have discovered a ledge
and moored the boat under that. One thing was cer-
tain, the pirate was going no place.

But who had blown off the after-section of the pi-
rate's vessel? Had the Investigator arrived, spotted the
pirate ship, and blasted it? If so, the Investigator must
surely be at Shoulder now, so all Odis need do was
wait until the storm lifted enough to get a message back
there. He settled down to wait, keeping a weather eye
on the approaching storm front. He had no intention of
cutting it too close back to the safety of his own boat.

So why was Murv hiding? Had those three space
shots been hostile rather than for identification?

The rain-laden wind began to keen in the darken-
ing sky. Gouts of lightning spat through the bilious
clouds. Warm air masses were moving in, Odis thought
with pleasure. Storm is breaking up a little. Weather
was capricious: a real mach-storm like this one, despite
the pull of two moons and the conjunction of another
planetary mass, could break up with a crustal shift up
north.

140

Murv was moving, not merely shifting position but
moving forward, darting to cover as he worked his
way back up the slope. The rising wind was bothering
him, Odis decided, and followed him obliquely. A flash
of a head beam and Odis saw that Murv was defi-
nitely searching among the hollows and crevices of the
cliff. Odis climbed faster.

He arrived in time to hear raised voices echoing in
an argument. But the sounds were so diffuse and the
rising wind so noisy that he could not pinpoint their
location. Odis cursed softly under his breath as he
jumped from crag to block, flashing his own beam in
and out the darker hollows.

The next thing he knew, Murv had emerged from a
low ledge, his arms wrapped around a foam-cask.
Since there was no chance for Murv to reach his hand
weapon, Odis stunned him with a full charge, neatly
catching the cube as Murv folded.

Keeping one hand on the cube, Odis knelt and
flashed his beam into the cavern. He caught sight of a
dark lump that was a prostrate body. He turned it over
and was reassured by a groan.

Rain began to spray across his back as he crouched
between the two unconscious forms. He could just leave
them here; they'd both be out a while. No. He didn't
know where Murv's boat was and he couldn't permit
the man to escape. Resigned, Odis settled down to wait.

"I don't know what you expected to find here,"
Okker said, his seamed face flushed with anger, "but
are you satisfied now?"

"I really don't understand, Investigator," Tallav put
in with understandable anxiety as he picked his way
across the debris. "You certainly cannot have suspected
Okker here, and he is absolutely the only one permitted
in the Eye."

Brack was sweating from his exertions. He had
pulled out every drawer, shelf, and movable fixture in
the rock chamber, rapped on every inch of the rock
walls, trying to find a hollow. He had moved his geiger
counter over everything without a crackle for his pains.
He didn't mind alienating Tallav or the ancient, but he
was furious over the fruitlessness of his search. He
141

glanced at the two men, somehow now allied against
him. That wouldn't do.

"This is the only installation known as the Eye on
Welladay, isn't it?" he demanded curtly.

"What's left of it," Okker replied.

"Unavoidable. I ... I intercepted a message, ob-
viously from the pirates, setting up a contact point. I
caught only part of it due to the storm's interference.
Southern edge of the lagoon where the eye is centered."

Brack pointed to the lagoon harbor which the single
big window of the harbormaster's control room over-
looked. "Your control room is on the southern edge of
the lagoon. This place is called the Eye. What other
eyes are there on this fladding planet?"

Okker regarded him with a deep scowl, then slapped
his thigh, and burst out into a cackle.

"You sure you heard where, and not when?" He
pointed an accusing finger at the Investigator as he
danced about in an excess of amusement.

"You fladding idiot, stop that!"

"I believe I can answer you, Investigator," Tallav
said, his manner stiff as he waved Okker to be still.
"Logical topical references are deceptive to a new-
comer." He smiled at the Investigator. "You see, this
is not the only lagoon on Welladay. It is therefore
possible that the message, which you say you heard
imperfectly due to faulty transmission, said when, not
where. Therefore, I presume the contact point meant
the southern edge of the Crown Lagoon, when the eye
of the storm was centered on it. Really, most ingenious.
With proper timing, the pirate could make contact, pick
up the radioactive iodine, and be off without ever be-
ing detected through the storm."

Brack swung around toward the exit. "Let's go then!"

"To Crown?" Okker cackled, reinfected with ill-
timed amusement. "Not now. Eye's over Crown right
now so they've made contact and the radioactive io-
dine is no doubt off-world. You blew it, Investigator!"

Brack seemed about to explode. Then, with a mas-
sive effort, he controlled himself and began to smile
ominously. "No, that's where you're wrong, Okker.
There can have been no contact because I disabled a
small spaceship just after I picked up the message. Got

142

a direct hit and saw it tumbling out of control. So that
iodine is still on this world, waiting to be picked up.
And I intend to do just that!"

"Not till the storm has cleared Crown, you aren't.
Drones can't handle that kind of turbulence, not unless
they go above it; and that's got to be too high for non-
pressurized cabins," Okker told him.

"I hadn't planned to use local transport." Brack's
smile broadened.

"Couldn't. Ain't even a fishboat left with sound
seams. And," Okker pointed a nobby finger at the In-
vestigator, "you just forget trying to make it in your
spacecraft between now and the time the rest of the
storm hits Crown. You couldn't do it on the trajectory
you'd need."

"If only Sharkey were back with the boat he was
testing," Tallav muttered, "that vessel could stand the
trip. We have to get that iodine." Tallav turned to
Okker. "Hasn't that squall along the coast lifted enough
for us to find Sharkey? Where could he be?"

Okker shrugged. "That squall came up sudden. He
probably had the good sense to head for the open sea
to avoid getting smashed. He doesn't like to go sea-
ward though," he contradicted himself, "so it won't hurt
to look for him, before the whales do."

"Before the whales do?" Brack queried.

"Like I said, the whales don't like Sharkey. I'll get
a weather picture. We're clear enough to receive . . ."

A bleep made the rest of his sentence inaudible.

"Odis to Eye, Odis to Eye: Drone-relay transmission.
Proceeding Crown Lagoon at 1930 hours. Checking out
spacecraft trajectory plotted toward Crown." A second
raucous bleep.

"Of all the nerve," gasped Tallav, the first to re-
cover.

"Must be that ship you shot up," Okker said to Brack
with more respect than he had previously shown.

"He ought not to take such risks," Tallay muttered.

"Then he should be at Crown by now?" Brack asked
in a tight voice, glancing up at the main chrono.

"Contact that drone, Okker," Tallav ordered.
"Maybe we can relay a message to Odis to search
for the iodine."

143

"Not if the eye's passed Crown," Okker grumbled,
but his gnarled fingers sped with unexpected agility
across the communications board. "Crown's a mighty
good place to hide something on--it's full of hollows,
caverns, and boulders."

"Get him to search the southern edge," Brack
snapped.

"Yeah, that's right, isn't it," Okker said, glancing
sideways at the Investigator.

Another unit began to chatter and a sheet of relay
paper extruded from a slot.

"Weather relay from a satellite," Okker said, and
grabbed the print before Tallav or Brack could.
"Hmmm. Weather's closed in again over Crown, but
see here," his stubby forefinger following the wispy
leading edge of the mach-storm, "it's breaking up." He
moved his finger to the right. "And we got some of the
bonuses. If you want to find Sharkey, you'd better git.
I'll transmit to Odis's drone. This weather looks like
it'll clear in another couple of hours and he can look
for the iodine. Can't do more'n that now."

"Be sure to tell him to search diligently for the io-
dine," Tallav was saying as Brack urged him out.

Another alert blasted and Tallav hesitated, his eyes
widening at the distinctive sound.

"C'mon," Brack snapped.

"A sublight message?" Tallav moved back into the
eye. "Now what?"

"Come!" Brack insisted.

"This is Federation Cruiser DLT-85F, Based Mirfak.
A d-k has been received from your planet, Welladay.
Coordinates Frame BE-27|186. Search and recover.
Search and recover. D-k assigned to Mercy Ship
Seginus X. Advise!"

"That pirate ship you shot down was a mercy boat.
And it is now on Crown Lagoon," Okker snapped in a
hard voice.

Tallav turned slowly to Brack, his face pale.

"Your pirates are more ingenious than we've given
them credit for. Using a mercy boat as a contact ves-
sel. Very clever. We must outsmart them. Catch them
red-handed. Let's go, Tallav!"

Then Brack pulled the stunned Planetary Adminis-

144

trator down the corridor. Okker stared after them, his
expression bleak, his eyes thoughtful. He turned back
to his board then, and began to broadcast a message
for Odis's drone to transmit. Then he warmed up the
sublight generator. If he was right, Tallav wouldn't
scream at the power use.

"I'm glad it wasn't you, Murv," Odis shouted, trying
to make himself heard above the storm.

Murv nodded, grinning at Shahanna, who was unself-
consciously taping her orders back to her bare ribs. A
bit heavy-boned, Murv thought, but no more flesh on
them than was needed to make her a soft handful.

"Who is it?"

Even with Odis's lips tickling his ear, Murv could
barely hear above the keening wind. He shrugged, then
put his mouth to Odis's ear. "Someone stealing a fish-
boat, sneaking out under cover of the squall at Shoul-
der?" He had to repeat his words twice before Odis
caught the entire sentence.

"Not past Okker. Only two boats seaworthy, any-
how. No parts!"

"Okker might be in it!"

Odis stared at Murv for a long moment, then shook
his head vehemently, denying that possibility. So Murv
shrugged and patted the cube of iodine significantly.
Odis grinned in comprehension.

Shahanna prodded Murv's possessive hand, then
jerked her thumb backward toward herself, rubbing the
place where her orders from Federation for a top-
priority requisition of radioactive iodine were taped.
She emphatically pantomimed the quantity of iodine
needed. Odis continued to nod and patted her hand re-
assuringly. She glared at Murv, who just grinned back
with sheer deviltry in his eyes. When she realized he
wouldn't give her the satisfaction of an acknowledg-
ment, she reached across and gripped Odis firmly on
the shoulder in an ostentatious gesture of friendship.
She almost wished Murv had been the pirate, instead of
the agent. She wondered if the ID plate, indisputable
evidence of his authenticity, ever ached the arm-bone
in which it had been implanted. He needn't have wal-
loped her so hard when he snatched the iodine. But

:14?

then, she mused, he had acted within the scope of the
information he possessed at that tune. Just as Odis had
when he knocked Murv out. She was sorry that she
couldn't describe the fishman who had thrown the cube
at her feet. She had gotten the most fleeting glimpse of
him but she was sure she would be able to recognize
him. However, that time was long off, judging by the
siren winds. Shahanna arranged herself into as com-
fortable a position as she could and closed her eyes.

"There's something over to starboard," Brack said,
raising his eyes from the screen to squint through the
plas-glas snout bubble of the drone.

Tallav flipped up the call switch. "Must be Odis.
We're halfway to Crown. Tallav calling fishboat. Tallav
here. Fishboat. Answer!"

"You're in the ship?" Surprise and relief colored the
voice of the respondent.

"Sharkey? What are you doing midocean?"

"Between the storms and the whales, I'm lucky to
be anywhere," the man snapped. "You don't see them
on your screen, do you?"

"We've spent hours scanning the coast for you,"
Tallav interrupted, angry but relieved at finding his
mechanical genius. "You've got the only seaworthy boat
and the Investigator and I--"

"Investigator?" Sharkey's voice was sharp.

Brack elbowed Tallav back from the speaker.

"Brack here. I have reason to believe that the pi-
rated radioactive iodine is still on this Crown Lagoon
the P.A. has been telling me about. I intercepted a
message arranging a contact point on the southern shore
of a lagoon, only the reception was faulty and I missed
the entire message. Do you read me?"

"Yeah, I read you, Investigator Brack."

"Good. Now, can that fishboat of yours make it back
to Crown Lagoon. You realize, of course, that we must
pick up the iodine before the pirate can retrieve it. An-
other fishman, named Odis, is presently believed to be
in the vicinity of the lagoon."

"Odis, but. . ."

"Can your fishboat accompany us?"

146

"Yeah, if you can keep those fardling whales off my
back."

"We cannot permit that iodine to fall into the wrong
hands, now can we?" Brack cut across Sharkey's com-
plaints, more threatening than suggesting, Tallav
thought.

"No, we can't," Sharkey agreed flatly.
"Good man. Now, how fast can that fishboat go?"
"Long as those squalls don't hit us, as fast as that
air bubble you're in." And, as they watched, they could
see the fishboat rise slightly from the water on its hy-
drofoils, then take off in the plume of spray that ar-
rowed northeast by east.

Before Brack could speak, Tallav banked the drone
and poured on power to follow.

"Would they send another Investigator?" Odis asked
Murv when Okker's transmission was completed.

Murv shrugged, grimacing. "It's possible. This has
taken a lot longer than predicted. And, with the credit
embargo and no ships touching down at Shoulder, I
haven't been able to send in a report. They might think
I'd been drowned here. Now, with Shahanna to identify
the Welladan contact, we can finish this up in no time.
First we've got to get this treasure safely to Shoulder."
He patted the iodine cube.

"The traitor is Sharkey," Odis said gloomily.

Murv laughed. "I'm not sure of anything. Remem-
ber, I thought it was you and you thought it was me,
and then we both suspected Shahanna of being the
pirate."

"Yes, but your Okker said Sharkey was still missing,"
Shahanna reminded the men, "and when he'd last
heard from the P.A., they'd given him up for lost and
were heading here."

"Try Okker again, direct, Odis," Murv urged, glanc-
ing up at the clearing skies.

"Another squall between here and Shoulder," Odis
reported after several minutes of fruitless calling.

"This planet's fardling weather is ... is ..." Murv
broke off.

"Don't mind me," Shahanna suggested with a grin,
"but shouldn't we leave here while we have a chance?"

147

She pointed to the fringe of dark clouds on the western
horizon.

"Okay. I'll check my boat," Murv said.

"I'll wrestle this down the hill again," Shahanna vol-
unteered with mock forbearance.

"I'll see if there's anything left of my ship, but I
doubt it," Odis said with resignation as he started south
down the rocks.

"I can give you a hand part of the way," Murv of-
fered, grinning at Shahanna.

"If you think you can keep up with me." She grinned
back.

"Sharkey! The cube's on the rocks on the lagoon
shore. Just where the contact said it would be!" Brack
roared through the speaker.

"Oh, oh," Tallav gasped feebly. "However did it sur-
vive the storm, unprotected like that!"

"You're seeing things. Brack!" Sharkey roared back.
"You're seeing things, I tell you."

"Like your whales, I'm seeing things. You fladding
fool, it's clearly visible. Are you through that passage
yet?"

"How'n hell could I be beaming to you if I weren't.
I'm surfacing!"

"We're landing," Brack countered.

"I'm not sure I can land on that," Tallav said, un-
able to see any likely surface on the tumbled rockscape.

"You'd better. I don't think I altogether trust this
chief engineer of yours," Brack muttered betweeen
clenched teeth, his eyes never leaving the cube, white
against the black lava on which it sat. "In fact, I find
it definitely suspicious that he knew such a convenient
channel into this lagoon which even you, as Planetary
Administrator, didn't know existed."

"Yes, but . . . how could he possibly ... I
mean ... ."

"There's a flat space big enough for this thing."

"ltd be so much easier for Sharkey. After all . . ."

"Land!"

"Good heavens, he's here already," Tallav exclaimed
as he set the drone down on the flat-topped slab that
was scarcely larger than the drone's landing feet.

148

"What do you mean?" Brack followed Tallav's ges-
ticulations and saw the figure emerging from the water,
heading toward the cube. "How'dya get out of this
thing?" he demanded, fumbling with his tunic.

Tallav reached across him and flipped up the hatch
release. Brack, his eyes on the figure, suddenly froze.

"That's not Sharkey!"

Tallav looked. "No, it isn't, is it. But who . . .
and--" Tallav broke off, staring at the Investigator.
"How would you know what Sharkey looks like?"

"Get out, Tallav," Brack ordered and turned his
hand weapon on the startled man.

As the two men emerged from the drone, the figure
on the shore reached for the cube and grabbed it, then
started off, up the slopes with more speed than either
observer thought possible.

"Halt!" Brack shouted and lobbed off a shot after
the fleeing figure.

A fishboat broke surface, its hatch flipping open for
the flying exit of a man. He also began to shoot, three
short cracks, splitting rocks just ahead of the fugitive.
The man turned and began to descend as fast as he
had climbed in the direction of the fishboat, heading
obliquely away from the men by the drone.

"You see," Brack shouted at Tallav, "there's the pi-
rate! We must intercept."

Tallav's previous doubts were swept aside by the
urgency in Brack's voice, and he didn't hesitate to fol-
low the man down the torturous escarpment to the
beach. Brack paused, whipping off a few shots in the
hope of slowing the pirate, but he was closing the dis-
tance to the fishboat faster than they could jump down
the rocks.

"Be careful of the iodine," Tallav jabbered when the
pirate started to use it as a shield.

The man flung the cube into the water and dove in
after it, pushing it ahead of him toward the fishboat.
He was urged on by Sharkey, who was running down
the ventral fin to assist.

When Shahanna, winded and half-blinded with wa-
tery eyes, grabbed the shock-webbing for a final heave
into the waiting man, she got her first look at his face.

"You're not Murv. You're . . ." and she grabbed the

149

cube back, frantically kicking out and away from the
fishboat.

"Give me that thing or I'll blow you out of the wa-
ter," Sharkey snarled.

"Shoot and you'll destroy the iodine."

Shots whistled over Shahanna's head, and Sharkey
backed behind the flaring dorsal fin. Shahanna heaved
herself away from the fishboat and began treading wa-
ter halfway between both contenders. She used the
buoyant cube as a head shield.

"I'm Tallav, Planetary Administrator of Welladay,"
the shorter of the two men on the shore yelled at her.
"Come ashore. If you turn yourself in, I promise you
immunity."

Shahanna felt intense relief. They had probably mis-
taken her for the pirate; that was why they'd shot at
her. She struck out to the beach with strong sweeps of
her free arm and long legs.

Tallav jumped about in the shallows, splashing wa-
ter in her face as he vacillated between grabbing the
iodine or her hand until she finally shook him off.

"I'm not a pirate. I'm from Seginus. My ship . . ."

"You survived?" Tallav gasped. "We got the d-k re-
layed from Fleet."

"Your pirate shot my engine away," Shahanna said
as Brack joined them, lobbing another shot at Sharkey,
who was trapped behind the dorsal fin of the bobbing
fishboat.

"Investigator Brack mistook you for a pirate," Tallav
explained nervously. "Why didn't you identify?"

"I never had the chance," Shahanna protested. "I
was checking coordinates . . ." she trailed off when she
caught the look on Tallav's face. She whirled to see
that Brack's weapon was trained on them.

"I'll take that iodine. Now," Brack said, smiling
slightly. He grabbed it by the shock-webbing, then care-
fully stepped backward and moved up the rocks, his
gun covering Shahanna, Tallav and Sharkey.

Suddenly they were distracted by violent whoshing
splashing sounds from the lagoon and a whining whistle
from above. Shahanna took the opportunity to launch
herself, her body taking every bit of advantage from
muscles that had been trained on a heavy-gravity

150

planet as she leaped at Brack. He could not keep track
of three attackers at once so his shots went wild. Sha-
hanna ripped the valuable iodine from his hand, then
rolled sideways and down. She ripped her suit against
the jagged rocks, but managed to scramble away with
the cube.

When she came to rest against a huge black fist of
a rock, she dazedly saw Sharkey running up the ledge
of his fishboat toward the hatch. Then she heard his
despairing scream as half a dozen fishboats closed in
on him and he was tumbled into the water to be ground
against the converging hulls. A bolt lanced past her ear
and she wrenched around, trying to put the rock fist
between her and Brack.

Somewhere Tallav was shrieking. "They've got him.
They got him. He's getting away. Stop him!" Then
abruptly the sounds of the struggles ended and Tallav's
exhortations ceased.

Battered and shaking with pain, Shahanna drew her-
self up. She saw Brack, spread across the rocks just be-
low the drone. Odis was climbing down, hand over
hand on the line which Shahanna could see had tangled
Brack's feet and brought him down. In the lagoon,
where roiling waters lapped around Tallav's knees,
only two fishboats remained--one lay unbelievably
sideways on the rocks; its belly was barnacle-covered,
exposed to glisten in the sun. The second was cruising
slowly in to shore near Tallav.

With a sigh Shahanna sagged and laid her scratched
cheek against the cool cube.

"I really don't credit what I saw," Tallav protested
as he watched Murv and Odis bandage the Seginan girl.

"When I reached my ship under the ledge," Murv
said patiently, "I saw the school on sonar, flooding in
through the passage after him."

"Then he was kept from Shoulder by the whales?"
Tallav asked.

"Hardly matters," Murv remarked. "We've got to get
you back to the hospital at Shoulder, Shahanna."

"And the iodine," Tallav said.

"Better get, then," Odis suggested, pointing toward
the squall brewing in the west.

1?1

"This fardling planet and its fladding storms!" Murv

growled.

"I've got to get iodine to Seginus," Shahanna in-
sisted, struggling to rise.

"We will. Just as soon as we fix you up at Shoulder."
"But my ship's--" Shahanna began, looking over

her shoulder.

"Brack won't require his spaceship anymore," Murv
assured her, helping her up and then swinging the cube

to his back.

"Now, wait a minute, Murv," Tallav ordered, block-
ing his path.

"Fair's fair, Tallav. Brack blew her mercy ship up,"
Murv said, "and considering her help today, that's the

least you can do."

"Of course, of course," Tallav replied.

"And to be sure, you can return the iodine to Shoul-
der," Murv went on, dumping the cube into Tallav's
arms, "in Odis's drone."

"I'm left with your fishboat?" Odis asked, slightly

amused.

"You're the sailor, friend," Murv laughed, thinking

of the rough passage out of the lagoon.

"And that's the only fishboat we've got left until the
embargo's lifted," Tallav added. "You be careful with

it."

By the time Odis had clambered into the fishboat,

the drones were circling above him. He tapped on the
outboard panel release, plotted a course across the la-
goon. The drones were approaching him now as he cut
across the lagoon toward the passage out. They wag-
gled farewell. Odis responded and then began to read
his gauges. A man had to keep an eye on the weather
of Welladay.

1?2

The three stories which follow are basically humor'
ous--or at least they exhibit my own notions of whimsy
and proportion. Humor is one of the hardest things to
carry off in a story or a novel and especially in sf. But
there are many humorous incidents in every life, so I've
included such episodes in all my books.

"The Thorns of Barevi" was an attempt to cash
in on the lucrative market for soft- and hard-core
pornography in the 60's. The market paid well for such
stories and many sf writers earned their monthly rent
from such submissions. I thought I'd give it a try. I
didn't really succeed there. But there were seeds in the
short story that could eventually germinate a full novel
about the modus operand! of the Catteni in subjugating
a planet and its inhabitants. But I haven't written that
one yet, either.

"Horse from a Different Sea" was written after my
three years as a Cub Scout Den Mother. In my youth
I was a Girl Scout; my brothers were Boy Scouts. So
I have nothing but respect for the work done by scout
leaders, and for any woman brave enough to be a
den mother. Furthermore, the scouting programs have
helped train many responsible and marvelous adults.

We're still in my Wilmington years with "The
Great Canine Chorus." Actually, we acquired Wizard
in New Jersey. He became one of the first K-9's to
serve the Wilmington Police Force. He was an unusu-
ally intelligent beast, about eighty-five pounds' worth
and so fast on his feet that he never had to bite, even
when it was all legal. He never needed to, his handler
told me: he'd trip up the guy he was chasing. Wizard
was honorably retired after three years of service when

15-3

it was discovered that he had displacia of the hip. He
lived another five years in comfort before the condi-
tion worsened enough to cause him constant pain.
He sired one litter of pups, and Chet kindly gave me
one. Merlin, who is the hero of a novel. The Ma.r\
of Merlin.

Wilmington is often maligned by its residents as
being a one-horse town because of the equestrian statue
of Caesar Rodney (one of the signers of the Declara-
tion of Independence), which inhabits the park in the
center of town.

Although there's a lot of good music in Wilmington,
and many fine semiprofessional singers, there never was
a canine chorus . . . that I heard about it, at any rate!
Who knows what's happened since I left?

The Thorns of Barevi

CHRISTIN BJORNSEN WONDERED IF SUMMER
on the planet Barevi could possible be the only sea-
son. There had been remarkably little variation in
temperature in the nine months since she'd arrived
here. She'd been four months in what appeared to
be the single, sprawling city of the planet when she'd
been a slave, and now had racked up five months of
comparative freedom--tooth-and-nail survival--in this
jungle, after her escape from the city in a stolen
flitter.

Her sleeveless, one-piece tunic was made of an
indestructible material, but it would not be very
warm in cold weather. The scooped neckline was
indecently low and the skirt ended midway down her
long thighs. It was closely modeled, in fact, after the
miniskirted sheath she had been wearing to class that
spring morning the Catteni ships had descended on
Denver. One moment she was on her way to the col-
lege campus; the next, she was one of thousands of
astonished and terrified Denverites being driven by
forcewhips up the ramp of a spaceship that made
the Queen Mary look like a bathtub float. Once past
the black maw of the ship, Chris, with all the others,
swiftly succumbed to the odorless gas. When she and
her fellow prisoners had awakened, they were in the
slave compounds of Barevi, waiting to be sold.

Chris aimed the avocado-sized pit of the gorupear
she was eating at the central stalk of a nearby thicket
of purple-branched thom-bushes. The bush instantly
rained tiny darts in all directions. Chris laughed.
She had bet it would take less than five minutes for

the young bush to rearm itself. And it had. The larger
ones took longer to position new missiles. She'd had
reason to find out.

Absently, she reached above her head for another
gorupear. Nothing from good old Terra rivaled them
for taste. She bit appreciatively into the firm reddish
flesh of the fruit and its succulent juices dribbled
down her chin on to her tanned breasts. Tugging at
the strap of her slip-tight tunic, she brushed the juice
away. The outfit was great for tanning, but when
winter comes? And shouldn't she concentrate on
gathering nuts and drying gorupears on the rocks by
the river for the cold season? She wrinkled her nose
at the half-eaten pear. They were mighty tasty, but
a steady diet of them ...

A low-pitched buzz attracted her attention. She
got to her feet, balanced carefully on the high limb of
the tree. Parting the branches, she peered up at the
cloudless sky. Two of the umpteen moons that cir-
cled Barevi were visible in the west. Below them, dots
that gave off sparkles of reflected sunlight were
swooping and diving.

The boys have called another hunt, she mused to
herself and, still standing, leaned against the tree
trunk to take advantage of her grandstand seat.

Before her chance to escape had presented itself,
Chris had picked up a good bit of the lingua Barevi,
a bastardization of the six or seven languages spoken
by the slaves. She had gleaned some information
about her captors, the Catteni. They were not, for
one thing, indigenous to this world but came from a
much heavier planet nearer galactic center. They
were one of the mercenary-explorer races employed
by a vast federation. They had colonized Barevi, us-
ing it as a clearinghouse for spoils acquired looting
unsuspecting non-federation planets, and as a rest-
and-relaxation center for their great ships' crews.
After years of the free-fall of space and lighter-
gravity planets, Catteni found it difficult to return to
their heavy, depressing home world. During her brief
enslavement, Chris had heard the Catteni boast of
dying everywhere in the galaxy except Catten. The
way they "played," Chris thought to herself, was rough

1?6

r

enough to insure that they died young, as well as far
from Catten.

Huge predators roamed the unspoiled plains of
Barevi, and the Catteni considered it great sport to
stand up to the rhinolike monsters with only a single
spear. That is, Chris remembered with a grim smile,
when they weren't brawling among themselves over
imagined slurs and insults. Two slaves, friends of hers,
had been crushed under the massive bodies of Cat-
teni during a free-for-all.

Since she had come to the valley, she had wit-
nessed half a dozen encounters between rhinos and
Catteni. Used to a much heavier gravity than Barevi,
the Catteni were able to execute incredible maneu-
vers as they softened their prey for the kill. The poor
rhinos had less chance than Spanish bulls and, in all
the fights Chris had seen, only one man was slightly
grazed.

As the flitters neared, she realized that they were
not acting like a hunting party. For one thing, one
dot was considerably ahead of the others. And by
God, she saw the light flashes of the trailing flitters'
forward guns firing at the "leader."

Hunted and hunters were at the foot of her valley
now. Suddenly, black smoke erupted from the rear
of the pursued flitter. It nosed upward. It hovered
reluctantly, then dove, slantingly, to strike the tumble

of boulders along the river's edge, not far from her
refuge.

Chris gasped as she beheld a figure, half-leaping,
half-staggering out of the badly smashed flitter. She
could scarcely believe that even a Catteni had sur-
vived that crash. Wide-eyed, she watched as he strug-
gled to his feet, then reeled from boulder to boulder
to get away from the smoldering wreck.

With a stunningly brilliant flare, the craft ex-
ploded. Fragments whistled into the underbrush as
far up the slope as her retreat, and the idiotic thorn-
bushes She had recently triggered sprayed out their
lethal little darts.

The smoke of the burning flitter obscured her view
now, and Chris lost sight of the man. The other flit-
ters had reached the wreck and were hovering over

157

it, like so many angry King-Kongish bees, swooping,
diving, trying to penetrate the smoke.

An afternoon breeze swirled the black clouds
about and Chris caught glimpses of the man, lurching
still further from the crash. She saw him stumble and
fall, after which he made no move to rise. Above, the
bees buzzed angrily, deprived of their prey.

Catteni don't hunt each other as a rule, she told
herself, surprised to find that she was halfway down
from her perch. They fight like Irishmen, sure, but to
chase a man so far from the city?

The crash had been too far away for Chris to dis-
tinguish the hunted man's features or build. He might
just be an escaped slave, like herself. If not Terran,
he might be from one of the half-dozen other subju-
gated races that lived on Barevi. Someone who had
had the guts to steal a flitter didn't deserve to die un-
der Catteni forcewhips.

Chris made her way down the slope, careful to
avoid the numerous thorn thickets that dominated
these woods. She had once amused herself with the
whimsy that the thorns were the gorupear's protec-
tors, for the two invariably grew close together.

At the top of the sheer precipice above the falls of
the river, she grabbed a long vine which she had hung
there for a speedy descent. On the river bank she
stuck to the dry, flat rocks until she came to the
stepping-stones that allowed her to cross the river
below the wide pool made by the little falls. Down a
gully, across another thom-bush-filled clearing, and
then she was directly above the spot where she had

last seen the man.

Keeping close to the brown rocks so nearly the
shade of her own tanned skin, she crossed the re-
maining distance. She all but tripped over him as the
wind puffed black smoke down among the rocks.

"Catteni!" she cried, furious as she bent to exam-
ine the unconscious man and recognized the gray and
yellow uniform despite its tattered and blackened

condition.

With a disdainful foot, she tried to turn him over.

And couldn't. The man might as well have been a
boulder. She knelt and yanked his bead around by

158

the thick slate-gray hair which, in a Catteni, did not
indicate age. Maybe he was dead?

No such luck. He was breathing. A bruise mark
on his temple showed one reason for his unconscious-
ness. For a Catteni, he was almost good-looking.
Most of them tended to have brutish, coarse features,
but this one had a straight, almost patrician nose,
even if there was a lot more of it than an elephant
would want to claim, and he had a wide, well-shaped
mouth. The Catteni to whom she had been sold had
had thick, blubbery lips, and she'd heard rumors--
never mind about them!

A sizzling crack jerked her head around in the di-
rection of the wreck. The damned fools were firing
on the burning wreck now. Chris looked down at the
unconscious man, wondering what on earth he had
done to provoke such vindictive thoroughness. They
sure wanted him good and dead.

The barrage pulverized the flitter, leaving the fire
no fuel. The wind, laden with coarse dust, blew odor-
ously from the wreckage. The man stirred and vainly
tried to raise himself, only to sink back to the ground
with a groan. Chris saw the flitters circling to land on
the plateau below the wreck.

"Going to case the scene of the crime, huh?"
It was completely illogical, Chris told herself, to
help a Catteni simply because there were others of
his race out to get him. But . . . she backtracked, just
in case he had left any trace for them to follow. She
went back as far as she could on the raw rock. Where
dirt began, ash had settled in a thick layer, obliterat-
ing any tracks he might have made. After all, the
Catteni might stumble on her if they thought their
victim had escaped the crash.

He had got to his feet when she returned. She tried
to lend her support but it was like trying to guide a
mountain.

"Come on, Mahomet," she urged softly. "Just walk
like a nice little boy to the river, and I'll duck you in.
Good cold water'll bring you round."

A sharp, distant gabble of voices made her start
nervously. God, those Catteni had got up that rock

159

face in a hurry. She'd forgotten they could take pro-
digious leaps on this light-gravity planet.

"They're coming. Follow me," she said in lingua
Barevi.

He groaned again, shaking his heavy head to clear
his senses. He turned toward her, his great yellow
eyes still dazed with shock. She would never get used
to such butter-colored irises.

"This way! Quickly!" she said, urgently tugging at
him. If he didn't shake his tree-stump legs, she was
going to leave him. Good Samaritans on Barevi had
better not get caught by Catteni.

She pulled at his arm and he seemed to make a
decision. He lurched forward, one great hand grasp-
ing her shoulder in an incredible viselike grip. They
reached the river bank, still ahead of the searchers.
But Chris groaned as she realized that the barely
conscious man would never be able to navigate the
stepping-stones.

The shouts behind them indicated that the others
were fanning out to search the rocks. Urgently she
grabbed his hand, leading him to the base of the falls.

"If you don't float, it's just too damned bad," she
said grimly, and taking a running start, she knocked
him into the water.

She dove in, right beside him, and when he did
indeed continue to sink, she grabbed and caught him
by his thick hair. Fortunately the water made even a
solid Catteni manageable. Exerting all her strength
and skill as a swimmer, she got his head above water
and held him up with a chin lock.

By sheer good luck, they came up in the space be-
tween the arc of the falls and the cliff, the curtain of
water shielding them from view. As the Catteni began
to struggle in her grasp, the five hunters leapt spectac-
ularly into view in the clearing by the pool. Her
"Mahomet" was instantly alert and, instead of strug-
gling, began to tread water beside her.

The Catteni were arguing with each other, and each
seemed to be issuing conflicting orders.

Mahomet released himself from her chinhold, his
yellow eyes never leaving the party on the bank. They

160

watched, keeping the swimming motions to a mini-
mum, though the falls would hide any ripples.

One Catteni, after a heated argument, decided to
cross the wide pool in a fantastic, to Chris, standing
leap. He and another began to move downstream,
carefully examining both banks and casually sur-
mounting up-ended coffin-sized boulders with no
effort. The other three went charging back the way
they had come, arguing violently.

After an endless interval, during which the icy
water chilled Chris to the bone, the refugee finally
touched her shoulder and nodded toward the shore.
But when she realized that he was going to head back
the way they had come, she shook her head emphat-
ically, pointing to the other side.

"I've a flitter. Over there," she shouted at him over
the noise of the falls. He frowned. "Safer. That way!"
she insisted, jabbing a finger in the direction of her
hidden vehicle. Stunned as she suddenly realized what
she had done, she stared at him. "Oh, God!"

He raised an eyebrow in surprise, and she hoped
for one long moment that he had not understood
what she had said. But he had, and now his yellow
eyes gleamed at her in the gloom with a different sort
of interest.

He's like a great lion, Chris thought, and almost
choked on fear.

"You have aided a Catteni," he said, rumbling in
a deep voice. "You shall not suffer for that."

Chris wasn't so sure when she tried to climb out of
the river and found herself numb with cold, and
strengthless. He, on the other hand, strode easily out
of the water. He looked down at her ineffectual strug-
gles, frowning irritably. Then, with no apparent ef-
fort, he curled the long fingers of one hand around
her upper arm and simply withdrew her from the
water, supporting her until she got her balance.

Shivering, she looked up at him. God, he was big:

the tallest Catteni she had ever seen. She had inher-
ited the height of her Swedish father and stood five
foot ten in her bare feet. She had topped most of the
Catteni she had seen by several inches, but his eyes
161

were level with hers. And his shoulders were as broad
as the scoop of a road-grader.

"Where's the flitter?" he demanded curtly.

She pointed, furious that she obeyed him so in-
stantly, and that she couldn't control the chattering
of her teeth or the trembling of her body. He reached
for her hand, relaxing his grip a little at her involun-
tary gasp of pain.

Replace "grubby paws" with "high-gravity paws,"
she told herself in an effort to keep up her spirits as
she stepped in front of him.

"I'll have to lead the way through the thorns," she
said. "Or maybe thorns don't bother Catteni hides?"
she added pertly.

To her surprise, he grinned at her.

"Catteni are always cautious."

As she turned, she realized that she had never seen
a Catteni smile before. She noticed, too, that he was
following carefully in her footsteps. It was good to
know that he was no more anxious to disturb the
thorn-bushes with their vicious little barbs than she
was.

They were halfway to the hidden flitter when both
heard, off to the right in the valley, the staccato volley
of orders in loud Catteni voices.

Mahomet paused, dropping to a half-crouch, in-
stinctively angling his body so that he did not touch
the close-growing vegetation. He listened, and al-
though the words were too distorted for Chris to
catch, he evidently understood them. A humorless
smile touched his lips and his eyes gleamed with a
light that frightened Chris.

"They have seen movement here. Hurry!" he said
in a low voice.

Chris broke into a jog trot; the twisting path made
a faster pace unwise. When they broke into the dell
just before the extensive thicket, she paused.

"Where? Are you lost?" he asked.

"Through those bushes. Watch. And when I say
move, move!"

He frowned skeptically as she picked up a handful
of small stones. With a practiced ease, she began
casting at the thickets. Gauging carefully, she threw

right and left, watching and counting the thorn sprays
to be sure she had triggered every bush. To be on the
safe side, she scooped up one more handful of peb-
bles and broadcast it. No further thorns showered.

"Move!" His reaction time was so much faster
than hers that he was halfway across the clearing
within seconds after the order escaped her lips. She
rushed in front of him. "We have five minutes to
cross before they rearm."

An expression that was almost respectful crossed
his face. Impatiently, she tugged at him and then
began to weave her way among the bushes, following
no recognizable route. When she made the last turn
and he saw the flitter, its nose cushioned in the heavy
cluster of thom-thicket limbs, he gave what Chris
assumed was a Catteni chuckle.

She waved open the flitter door and bade him to
enter with a regal gesture. He walked straight to the
instrument panel, grunting as he activated the main
switch.

"Half a tank of fuel," he muttered, and then
checked the other dials. He seemed pleased as he
nipped off the switch. He glanced up at the trans-
parent top, camouflaged by the interwining leafy
limbs, at the bed she had made herself on the deck,
at the utensils she had fashioned from spare parts in
the lockers.

"So it was you who stole the commander's per-
sonal car," he remarked, looking intently at her.

Chris jerked her chin up.

"At least I landed it in one piece," she replied.

At that he laughed outright, once.

"You're one of the new species?"

"I'm a Terran," she said with haughty pride, her
stance marred by uncontrollable shivering.

"Thin-skinned species," he remarked. He looked
down at her heaving chest, and slowly started to
stroke her shoulder with one finger. His touch was
feathery--and more. "Soft to the touch," he said
absently. "I haven't bothered to try a Terran yet . . ."

Before she could draw back, his left hand cupped
her breast and the other grabbed her tunic at the
back, ripping the garment from her in one sharp,

163

powerful jerk. The fingers of his right hand pulled
her inexorably toward him.

"I saved your life . . ." she said in protest, her heart
beating in panic.

"And I intend to reward you suitably."

"Not that. .."

"A Catteni's honor is involved," he said, both
hands exerting such pressure on her body that his
caresses were painful.

With no effort at all he picked her up and depos-
ited her on the bed. When she tried to wiggle away,
he laid a hand, like a ton of bricks, on her chest. With
the other, he stripped off his tunic, exposing his im-
mense chest, each well-defined muscle rippling sinu-
ously under slightly olive skin. The rest of his clothing
followed.

"Oh no!" Chris cried in desperation. "You're ... I
can't!"

He glanced down at her wide, curving hips, and
shrugged.

"Catteni have been enjoying your race since you
were discovered," he reassured her calmly.

"Yes, but have we enjoyed it?"

She made a frantic attempt to evade him as he
leaned down. But there was no escape from that im-
placable male. She arched her back, only to realize
that she had made it much easier for him. She con-
tinued to struggle out of pride.

"You enjoy pain?" he asked, a puzzled frown on
his face. His fingers tightened just that much more so
that she felt she'd been caught in a vise and, with a
shuddering moan she relaxed, too exhausted to offer
even token resistance. "Now we will both enjoy," he
said, and proceeded to prove his point.

Just as she was certain she would be split apart,
apprehension was replaced by a surging emotion far
more powerful and overwhelming. Somewhere, in
that flood of intense relief and unexpected ecstasy,
she heard him exclaiming, too, in loud surprise.

A harsh curse broke the silence that had settled
in the hidden flitter. The warm, strong body of the
Catteni stiffened. ,Chris glanced up at him in alarm.
He brushed his hand warningly across her lips, all

his attention focused in the direction of that swear-
ing. The flitter door was still open, and both Chris
and Mahomet heard the vrrh, vrrh as the thorn-bushes
released their darts. There were loud cries of pain and
further curses. Chris saw the Catteni's eyes dance with
malicious amusement.

An authoritative voice uttered a rough command,
and even Chris understood the "Get the hell out of
here, nothing can pass this way."

She and Mahomet lay still, almost breathless, al-
though the flitter was buried a good hundred yards
from the edge of the thickets and could not possibly
be seen. They waited until they heard no sound ex-
cept the brief sighing of the wind.

With a low laugh, the Catteni finally withdrew
from Chris, stretching leisurely, his joints popping
and cracking with startling loudness.

"I'd heard there was a run on Terran women, and
now I can see why. They use their heads as well as
their tails."

Chris slapped at his hand, feeling like a flea at-
tacking a Great Dane, but determined to make a
gesture. He began to stroke her body, gently explor-
ing it rather than attempting to arouse passion. He
was curious, like a small intrigued boy.

"Yes, I can see why," he repeated with a chuckle.
He lay back, glancing about the flitter. "This car has
been gone five months. Why have you stayed so long
alone?" he asked. "Are there others of you here?"
He propped himself up on one huge elbow, looking
suspiciously out the windows.

"Just me."

He relaxed and smiled. Sensing his receptivity, she
dared ask him why he had been chased by his own
people.

"Oh," and he shrugged negligently, "a tactical error.
I was forced to kill their patrol leader. He had insulted
the accomplishments of my squadron. And, as I was
without allies, I withdrew."

"He who fights and runs away, lives to fight an-
other day?"

"The next day," he corrected her, absently.
"The next day?"

"Certainly. It is against the Catteni Law to con-
tinue a quarrel past the same hour of the following
day. I have only to lie hidden," and he grinned at
her, "until tomorrow at sun zenith and then I can
return."

"Won't they be waiting for you?"

He shook his head violently. "Against the Law.
Otherwise, we Catteni would quickly exterminate
each other."

"You honestly mean to say that, if they can't find
you before noon tomorrow, they have to give up?"

He nodded.

"Would that Law apply to slaves, too?"

He looked at her intently. "It can. And I shall per-
sonally see that in your case it does. However, while
we're waiting for tomorrow . . ." And he reached pur-
posefully for her.

Batting at his possessive hands, she squirmed to
free herself.

"What? Was I not tender enough with you?" he
asked, concern flitting across his face. "We Catteni
pride ourselves that we are gentle with our women."

Chris could think of a hundred argumentative re-
plies to that statement, and yet had to admit that he
had been considerate, gentle, and that even at the
height of his passion, he had not forgotten to adjust
his strength. His hands were caressing her now, softly,
and despite herself, she was responding to him, want-
ing more of that strong gentleness.

"It's just . . . well . . . you've had quite a day," she
temporized, aware that her body was already con-
forming itself to his even as she protested, "you've
been in a crash, half-frozen in icy water and . .."

"Like the thom-bushes of Barevi," he said, smil-
ing, "it takes the Catteni little time to rearm."

Horse from a Different Sea

ARE WE BABES-IN-THE-WOODS? OR I SHOULD

say, babes-in-space. I don't mean beating the Russians
to a manned moonbase or setting up a space hospital
or making Mars adaptable to our survival there to ease
the population explosion here. Our problem is more
basic than that: can man survive as Homo sapiens or
a reasonable facsimile thereof. In that department, are
we wetting our spacesuits!

I know what I'm talking about. Only I can't talk.
Not yet, since my evidence hasn't come to light, so
to speak. It's due soon and, as an ambulance chaser
from way back, I've got to be there. I'd rather know
right off what the competition makes out as.

We--that is, mankind, Earth-type--are in for one
helluva jolt and this is one therapeutic pill that has
no sugar coating--unless it's an LSD cube. I'm not
the only one in the medical fraternity to realize that
there's something queer in the conversion chamber.
Some of us tumbled to it six months ago. The re-
search is not the stuff of which AMA citations are
made, but it will be handy when I-told-you-so time
comes.

For me it started when my perennial maternity
case phoned up and asked for an appointment.

"Buzzy-boy says I must be pregnant again," Liz
Lattimore said with understandable grimness in her
voice. She has six under six--well, one set of twins.

Buzz is a guy on a single track, business and mon-
key business. As a kind of moral justice, he has sym-
pathetic reactions to each of Liz's pregnancies in
the form of violent morning nausea. Oh yes, it hap-

167

'166

pens. Liz may develop varicose veins, hemorrhoids,
boils, hot flashes, heartburn, and high blood pressure
during her gestations. Buzz gets the morning sickness.
"How long since you missed a period, Liz?" I

asked her.

"That's just it, Ted. This time he must be sympa-
thetic to someone else because I came regular as
clockwork last week."

"On a possible sixth pregnancy, you'd better see

me."

She did. She wasn't pregnant.

"We had a fight a while ago," she told me after
she'd dressed. "Buzz flounced out of the house like
an injured Cub Scout. When he came home, he wore
that merchandise-better-than-thou expression. Some-
times, Ted, it's a pure relief to me when Buzz cats
around so I don't whinge."

She paused, about to add something more but hes-
itated. Even if she had voiced her suspicion then, I
doubt it would've made much difference.

"Anything I can do, Liz?"

"Outside of helping to suppress a paternity suit if
the case arises, I don't think so. We made up our dif-
ferences." She rolled her eyes with droll expressive-
ness.

"Seriously, Liz, I'm glad you're not freshening
again. You're run ragged now. Send Buzz in for a
checkup. He may need it."

Buzz came in the next day at noon, which proved
that he was now worried about himself.

"How come you said Liz wasn't pregnant?"

"Because she isn't. Praise be!"

"Then how come I got this damned morning nau-
sea? I only get it when she's got buns in the oven."

"Nausea is a symptom not necessarily exclusive
to pregnancy. Especially in the male of the species."

As I mentioned, we're such babes-in-space.

"Off the record, Buzz, could you be sympathetic
to someone else?"

Buzz flushed.

"Ted, I'm nuts about Liz no matter what I do or
say. I only go catting when we've had a fight or she's
too pregnant to screw. Hell, Ted, if I didn't love her

168

so much, d'you think I'd go home every night to a
house full of squalling brats?"

"Well, that was quite an imagination you pro-
jected the other afternoon at Casey's."

"At Casey's?" Buzz swallowed. "I didn't know
you were there."

"Buzz, your voice'd carry to your funeral. Was it
the girl at Lady Linda's?"

A strange look crossed Buzz's face and I could see
him about to evade the question with some Latti-
morian verbal embroidery. "She was the damnedest
woman I ever screwed, Ted. Once was, by God,
enough. But that once . . ." Buzz whistled slowly,
shaking his head.

Something in his attitude inhibited further ques-
tions, so I changed the subject by getting him to strip.
After a thorough physical I found only a little hard
lump near the large intestine, but not situated where
it could cause pressure that might result in nausea. I
sent him to the hospital for a gastrointestinal series
but the results were inconclusive. I saw no cause for
alarm, so I told him that the nausea was caused by
overwork--with a wink--and to give up smoking.

In the next few weeks I examined four more seri-
ously nauseated males with small intestinal lumps. I
also heard of seventeen more around town. Then I
had a visit from the leading local Boy Scout and our
little unprepared Explorer gave me my first definite
lead.

"Doc, can I see you for a minute? I mean, you're
not too tired or anything?"

When six feet two inches and 185 pounds of Ex-
plorer Boy Scout Horace Baker comes sneaking around
after my nurse has left, I'd better not be too tired to
see him.

"Now, what's wrong with you, Hoke? You look
mighty pale for Glen Cove's answer to a maiden's
prayer?"

The boy literally cringed away from my buddy-
type arm.

"Hey, feller, did I strike too close to home?" I led
him to the surgery table.

1'69

"Aw, Doc, I'm in awful trouble." He groaned and
averted his head.

"You mean," and I put on my best Ben Gazzara
pose, "you've got some girl in trouble?"

"Naw," and he was momentarily indignant, "I
wear my pants too tight. No, Doc, it's me. Ever since
I went ... to ... Mrs. Linda's . . ." His voice failed
him.

A kaleidoscope of impressions overwhelmed me
for a moment at this confession. Kids grow up so fast.
A few flashes of the red squally baby I'd delivered
from Mrs. Baker merged into Explorer Hoke com-
plete with merit badge sash, approaching in best In-
dian fashion Lady Linda's modestly situated house
of seven delights. I wasn't sure whether I was glad or
sorry that Hoke had taken his lustiness to Linda's. I
was relieved that his experiments hadn't taken root,
as it were, in any of his peers. Hoke needn't worry
about VD: Linda's girls were clean. I had no remedy
for his conscience, however.

"Well, now, Hoke, I don't think you have anything
more to worry about than overactive sex glands.
Linda's girls are--"

"Oh, it's not that. Doc. It's just that I can't eat.
Nothing stays down. It's worse in the mornings, and
Mom notices that I don't pack it away--hey!"

Past the first sentence I had dropped the TV medic
pose and stretched him out flat. My fingers dug into
his big gut and, sure enough, the precocious Explorer
had joined the Group.

I gave him some dramamine and told him it was
indigestion caused by a guilty conscience and to eat
spaghetti for breakfast. He fortunately didn't argue
because I had no more quick answers. I hurried him
out, locked up, and went on a professional call.

Linda herself opened the door.

"Dr. Martin! You're psychic," she said by way of
greeting. "I hate to mix pleasure with business and
I'll expect your bill. . ."

"You won't get one because I am here on business,
Linda," I said, trying not to be too brusque. "I'd ap-
preciate seeing you? new girl for a brief professional
inquiry."

170

Linda looked stunned, an expression I never thought
to see on her face.

"She's who I was calling you for." And Linda ges-
tured me to follow her up the stairs. "She's been los-
ing weight steadily. She's skin and bones and you know
that doesn't bed easy."

"Nausea?"

"Doesn't mention it. Until three days ago she had
the appetite of an elephant, but you'd never guess it
to look at her." Linda was slightly jealous.

"How long's she been with you?"

"About five weeks. A friend sent her to me from
Chicago. She's got a sister in the business there. She's
good but funny, no one wants her steady. She's ed-
ucated, too: speaks very good English."

"She's foreign?"

"Must be, but I can't place her accent and I never
ask too many personal questions."

The room Linda gestured me to enter was dark
and rank with a heavy, musty, unaired-attic odor. A
dim light shone on the gaunt face of the dying girl.
She was dying. It's an indescribable but recognizable
look which I've seen too often in my years of prac-
tice. The pulse in her spider-thin wrist was barely
discernible; her heartbeat mumed and erratic. She
opened her eyes at my touch, then smiled wanly at
Linda standing behind me.

"Too much at once. Now too little, too late. But
thanks, Linda. I won't be much trouble, I promise."
She spoke in a raspy voice, but her phrases were
oddly inflected. "You see, Doctor, I'm dying and
there's no cure for my ailment."

"No, you just rest easy," I began, but her knowing
eyes mocked me for the specious words.
"A cigarette, please?"

I offered my case, tacitly admitting my helpless-
ness. She was sinking so visibly that it would have
been heartless to bother her. An autopsy would give
me more specifics anyhow.

"Thanks. Now, would you please go? Both of
you." This one was different all right. No last-minute
confessions of inadequacy, no wailing for repentance

171

and salvation, and no real bravura. She just wanted
to be left alone. I guided Linda out.

"Hell, Doc. Someone should stay with the poor
kid," Linda said.

"You see too much TV."

"So does she," Linda replied with an irritated
snort. "She's never smoked before."

The hall was suddenly flooded with a very bright
light and an acrid formic acid stench like burning
ants. I threw the door open but it was too late. The
bed was a blazing funeral pyre.

I know now why, but at the moment I was aghast
with remorse at this mystifying incineration. I couldn't
understand how a cigarette, no matter how carelessly
held by a novice smoker, could have caused as violent
a combustion as this. I didn't have much time to think
about it because it was all we could do to keep the
blaze from spreading until the fire department got
there. Neither Linda nor I mentioned that we'd only
been out of the room three seconds when the fire
started. No one would have believed us.

So my primary clue went up spectacularly in
smoke. A little judicious inquiry uncovered a verita-
ble epidemic of smoking-in-bed fire deaths in fifteen
cities. One incident got a lot of publicity because the
victim was a call girl. She was to have appeared be-
fore a board of inquiry the next day so her death was
considered a grisly form of suicide. Seventeen such
incidents on the East Coast scared me sufficiently
not to want to know the odds against us in the rest of
the world.

Linda gave me the names of all the men who had
patronized the girl. If the others of her ilk had got
around as much as she had . . . wow! Five of the
men were patients of mine. Buzz was the furthest
along--as far as I could tell--but then, it had been
his tale in Casey's that had prompted others to visit
the girl. The chief of police shouldn't have accepted
payola in trade but that's his lookout. I almost wish I
could morally allow the old fool to carry to "term."
Jerry Striker's a 'poor enough character, but it'd
serve his wife right. Martin Tippers? I hadn't guessed
172

him for the type. Must have been drunk. And our
precocious Explorer.

What a queer collection of males to be chosen to
propagate an unknown race on a new world. That's
what I mean about adapting to survive. Those gals,
if females they were, used equipment to hand, not
fancy life-support systems.

Now that I know the game, I can't just ingenu-
ously suggest to any one of my equally puzzled col-
leagues that their patients got invited into a lady
spider's nest. Or maybe they had a hurry call from a
passing sea mare? The least bizarre examples of
male incubation on this planet are spiders and sea
horses, and those comparisons are quite enough to
inhibit further speculation. Give the imagination full
rein and there are endless possibilities. You pays
your money and you takes your choice. Of course, if
I let one of the men carry to term, I'd find out more.
But, hell, neither my conscience nor my professional
integrity will permit me.

The most I can do is spread out the curious un-
orthodox operations on my five pregnant males so
that I'll have some interesting embryos for my babes-
in-space theory. Even then I might goof. I don't
know how long gestation takes, what would serve as
a birth canal or, if you know what spiders do ... well,
you can see my problem. What form will the
progency ultimately assume? That of their hosts?
The two foeti I've removed show different stages of
freak-out evolution. I'm letting Hoke Baker go long-
est because he's adjusted best to the changes in his
physiology. But I've got to arrange for his abortion
soon--before he becomes eligible for an Explorer's
Maternity Badge.

The Great Canine Chorus

PETE ROBERTS OF THE WILMINGTON, DELA-

ware, K-9 Corps has as his partner a German shep-
herd named Wizard. One night, just after they took
the beat, Wizard started acting itchy, nervous, whiny.
He was snappish, not like himself at all. He kept try-
ing to pull Pete toward Seventh Street.

That wasn't the beat, as Wiz well knew. But Pete
decided there might be a good reason. Wizard was a
canny dog; he could pick a culprit out of a crowd by
the smell of fear the man exuded. And he'd saved
Pete from two muggings already this year. So, pro-
testing, Pete let Wizard lead him to a block of build-
ings being torn down as part of an urban renewal
program.

Wizard became more and more impatient with
Pete's apprehensive, measured pace, and tried to tug
him into a jog. Pete began to feel worried, kind of
sickly scared. Suddenly the dog mounted the worn
stairs of one of the buildings about to be demolished.
He pawed at the door, whining.

Who's that? a voice asked, high and quavering like
an old lady's. Pa? It couldn't be too old a female,

then.

Wizard barked sharply three times in the negative
signal he'd been taught.

Hi, dog. Do you see my pa?

Wiz got down from the steps, looked up and down
the street, then barked again three times.

Pa's so late, and I'm so hungry, the voice said.

Pete, who had eaten well an hour earlier, was sud-
denly overwhelmed with hunger--a sullen kind of

174

stomach cramp that he'd experienced in Korea when
his unit was cut off for four days. The kind of grip-
ping pangs you get when you're hungry all the time.

"Lady, I'm going down to the deli on the corner.
I'll be right back with something to tide you over till
your pa gets back." Pete made the announcement
before he realized it. He left Wizard to guard the
door.

He ordered a sub with no onions (somehow he knew
she wouldn't want them), two cokes and a banana.

I'm in the back room, said the voice when he and
Wizard entered the hall.

Pete had had the distinct impression the voice had
come from the front of the building. It was too thin
to have carried far. The stench in the filthy hall
sickened Pete. No matter how many years he might
spend on the force, he'd never get used to the odor of
poverty. Maybe it was the stink that brought a growl
from Wizard.

Pete pushed open the back door and entered the
pitifully furnished room. On an old armchair by the
window was a wasted little figure, like a broken doll
thrown down by a careless child, limbs askew. By
now he expected a girl, a child, but this was such a
little girl!

Wizard got down on his belly, licking his lips nerv-
ously. He crawled carefully across the dirty floor. He
sniffed at the tiny hand on the shabby arm of the
chair, whined softly. The little band did not move
away, nor toward him, either.

What kind of a father, Pete fumed to himself,
would leave a kid, a mere baby, alone in a place like
this?

I'm no baby, mister. I'm nine years old, she in-
formed him indignantly.

Pete apologized contritely, blaming his error on
the glare from the single window. He wouldn't have
thought her more than five, six at the outside. She
was so pitifully underdeveloped. She was clean, as
were her shred of a dress and the old blanket on
which she lay, but the rest of the room was filthy.
Her pinched face had a curious, calm beauty to it.
When Pete knelt beside her, he saw her eyes were

17?

filmed and sightless. And when she spoke, her mouth

did not move.
He found himself breaking off small pieces of the

sub and feeding them to her. She sipped the Coke
through a straw and a look of intense pleasure crossed

her face.

/ knew I remembered how wonderful it tasted, she

said. But not with her lips.

The truth dawned on Pete; this child was a tele-
path. Impossible? He hadn't actually believed any
of that crap. But there was no other explanation.

"You aren't talking," he said. "You don't make a

sound."

/ am too talking, answered the child soundlessly.

And you're answering.
Pete gulped, hastily trying to mend matters. "You

just don't speak the usual way."

7 do everything kind of different. At least my pa's
always complaining I do. Her head turned slowly to-
ward him. You don't suppose something's happened to
Pa, do you? I can't hear very far away when I'm hun-
gry.

Guiltily, Pete fed her another bite. "When did

you eat last?"

Pa was home this morning. But all we had was

bread.

Pete vowed passionately to himself that he was

going to see Welfare immediately.

Oh, you mustn't! pleaded .the soundless voice.
Wizard, ears flattened, growled menacingly at Pete.
She was clearly frightened of Welfare. They'd take
me away, like they took my sister, and put me in a
barred place and I'd never hear any birds or see Pa.
They might cut me up 'cause my body doesn't work
right. She still spoke without sound.

"Aw, honey . . ."

My name's Maria, not honey.

"Maria, you got it all wrong. Wizard, you tell her.

Welfare helps people. You'd have a clean bed and

birds right outside the window."

It'd be a hospital. My ma died in a hospital be-
cause no one cared. Pa said so. They just let her die.

Wizard whimpered. Pete felt frightened himself.

176

He soothed Maria as best he could with promises of
no hospitals, no cutting, plenty of birds. What she
didn't finish of the sandwich, he wrapped up and put
beside her. He started to peel the banana for her but
she refused it.

It's a treat for Wiz for bringing you here. She
laughed. He listens to people.
Pete grinned.

"How on earth did you know that fool dog loves
bananas?"

Nothing could have been funnier to Maria, and
her laughter was so contagious Pete grinned foolishly.
Even Wizard laughed in his canine way, his tongue
lolling out of one side of his mouth. Suddenly the at-
mosphere changed.

I hear Pa coming. You'd better leave. He wouldn't
like having the fuzz in here.
"Then why did you let me in?"
Wizard. Dogs always know. I talk to dogs all the
time. But I've never talked to one as smart as Wizard
before. You get out now. Quick.

Pete felt a violent compulsion to take to his heels.
Once they were around the corner the impulse van-
ished, so he waited a few moments and then peered
out at the building. He saw a shambling figure go into
the house where they had found Maria.

Pete was shaken by his encounter with the girl:

shaken, confused, and frightened. She had taken
him over, used him to suit her needs, and then cut
him off in fear when all he wanted to do was help her.
He worried about her all the way to the hospital: her
pitiful life in those awful surroundings . . . and that
strange talent.

He had a friend, a drinking buddy, who was in-
terning at Delaware Hospital. Finding Joe Lavclle
on duty in the emergency ward that night, Pete told
him a little about the girl. "And what's going to be-
come of her, living like that?"

"I'd say she was dead already and didn't know it,"
Joe snorted.

The thought of Maria dead choked Pete up. Her
fragile laugh, her curious calm beauty gone? No!

"Hey, Pete!" The intern watched the cop's gut

177

reaction with amazement. "I was only kidding. Why,
I couldn't even guess what was wrong with her with-
out an examination. She could have had polio, men-
ingitis, m.s., any variety of paralysis. But I'd say she
needed treatment, fast. And I'd certainly like to see
this kid who can make a stalwart defender of this one-
horse town quake in his boots like this."

Pete growled and Wizard seconded it.

Laughing, Joe warded off an imaginary attack
with his arm, just as his phone rang. Pete resumed
his patrol.

The next morning, resolved to help Maria in spite
of herself, he bought a frilly dress, bundled it and
food and Wizard into his car, and went back to the
house. He "talked" to let her know he was coming.

There was no answer. The back room was de-
serted. Except for the de-stuffed armchair by the
window and two Coke bottles on the floor under it,
Pete could have sworn no one had been in the house
for months.

"Find Maria, Wiz," Pete ordered.

Wizard sniffed around and, with a yelp, raced out
the door. He sniffed around outside and seemed to
find a trace. Pete followed him in the car. Wizard
acted just as if he knew exactly where he was going.
He got halfway down the next block, then stopped
as if he had run into an invisible wall. He lay down
on the sidewalk, put his head on his paws, and
whined. Then he slunk back to Pete at the curb.

"Find her. Wizard!" The dog crouched down and
laid his ears back. It was the first time he had ever
disobeyed that tone of voice.

"Maria! We're your friends! We want to help!"
Pete called, oblivious to the stares. He was sure she
could hear him. He waited, apprehensive, unsure.

No/ came the one disembodied word, filling his
skull till his head rang. There was no arguing with it.
"At least tell Wiz if you're hungry, Maria. He can
bring you food. I promise I won't follow."

Twice in the next three weeks, Wizard darted into
a deli, whining pathetically. The first time, it took
Pete a minute or so to grasp what the big dog wanted.

178

Then he'd get a sandwich and a Coke to go, put it in
a bag, roll the top into a handle for Wizard to carry.
Then he'd wait till the dog returned. He was deter-
mined to prove to Maria that he'd keep his promise.
He didn't want to lose contact with her.

In the meantime, he did a little library research on
telepathy, but the textbooks were too much for him.
When he asked the librarian for something a guy
could understand, he was shown the science fiction
shelves.

Maria didn't act like fictional telepaths. According
to the stories, she should be able to get food when
she wanted it, commit robberies undetected, start
fires, transport herself and anyone else anywhere, aid
society, and perform minor miracles. Like heal her-
self, even. The prospects were magnificently endless.
Yet she was stuck in some hideous, hot horrible back
room, half-starved and slowly dying of neglect.

The one thing Pete had to accept was the fact that
Maria kept in touch with Wizard but excluded him.
Since Pete considered Wizard every bit as smart as
most men, he wasn't offended; but he felt powerless
to help her as only another human could.

The next set of inexplicable incidents began about
four weeks after Pete and Wizard first encountered
Maria. They were pacing the beat on the hotel side
of Rodney Square when the dog got restless. He
strained against the leash until Pete let him go to see
where he'd head. At a dead run, Wizard streaked
down Eleventh Street, right over into Harry West's
beat.

Harry walked with Pirate, the biggest dog on the
force. Pete couldn't figure Harry in trouble. But he
was wrong. He heard the sullen rumble of an angry
crowd by the time he reached French Street. Wiz
was already around that corner and in the middle of
a fight. Pete whistled for squad cars as he broke into
the edge of the crowd, swinging his nightstick. He
could hear Wizard growling angrily. He heard a yelp
and then the growling of a second dog. He stumbled
over Harry, bleeding from a head wound. Pete got
Harry clear of the stampede just as the squad cars
arrived.

Both dogs were at work, snapping, snarling, dart-
ing around, and the crowd thinned rapidly. In a mat-
ter of minutes, all but the bitten, bruised, and brained
had evaporated into the hot night.

"How'd you get here so fast?" Harry demanded as
he came to. "I heard Wiz just as some kook pelted
me with a bottle."

"Well, Wizard just took off," was Pete's unen-
lightened reply.

"Glad he did. We came down on a Code One, but
when Pirate and I got to the edge of the mob to get
them moving, they closed in like we was Christmas
in July. Somebody got Pirate in the head and I couldn't
turn anywhere without getting clobbered." Harry
dabbed at the cuts on his hands. "I'd sure like to know
what set them off."

Wizard and the bigger dog were wandering around
the street, nervously sniffing. The paddy wagon ar-
rived, and Wiz and Pirate assisted in rounding up the
incidentals, just begging for one legal bite. Then they
started whiffling around again.

"What's with the dogs?" Harry asked Pete as he
helped him into a car. "Look at old Wiz pumping."

Wizard's tail was wagging like he was on his way
to a steak fry.

"Maria!" Pete gasped and called Wizard to heel.
The dog came bounding over, wriggling with delight.
"Find Maria!" But Wizard barked three times,
sneezed, and shook his head. Pirate came up, nuz-
zled Harry, sniffed Wizard, and then he barked three
times.

"I got a girl that only talks to dogs yet," Pete said
in bitter disgust.

Back on their own beat, Pete tried to figure out
why Maria would have called Wizard. Harry and
Pirate weren't in trouble at the time Wiz took off.
Maria must have been worried . . . yeah, that was it!
Worried about her old man! She'd called Wizard be-
cause her old man had been in that crowd.

And that explained why Wizard was so happy-
acting. He'd found Maria's father's trail leading away
from the rumble. '

Pete left a note for Harry to keep an ear and an

180

eye open for any crippled kids on his beat and to let
him know if Pirate ever acted . . . strange. She might
keep in touch with Pirate, too, since the big dog had
been involved in getting her father out of a tough
scrape.

Two of the men picked up that day were known
numbers runners. They stuck to they story that the
cop had come busting in where he wasn't wanted and
his damn dog had spooked the crowd into the rumble.
They just "happened" to be there.

For the next few weeks Pete got no signs from Wiz-
ard that Maria was in any distress. This bothered him
almost as much as hearing from her when she was
hungry. At headquarters they were hearing nasty
rumors about a new numbers racket. Certain hoods
were being seen in new cars, in new quarters, acting
up. Two runners were picked up on suspicion, in the
hope of cracking them. They had to be released
twenty-four hours later, clean, but one of them had
bragged a little. Pete heard one of the detective lieu-
tenants complaining bitterly about it.

"Yeah, the punk says, 'You gotta have evidence,
Lootenant, and this time there ain't any, Lootenant.
Not unless ya can read minds.' That's what he says,
s'belp me."

Mariaf Pete thought with a sense of shock.

What was it Maria had said? When she was hun-
gry, she didn't have the strength to hear far away. If
she were well fed, how far could she hear? All the
way to Chicago? To grab the numbers?

The conclusion just couldn't be dodged. Maria and
her pa were involved. But how would she know she
was doing something wrong? Whoever had latched
onto her would be jubilant over the fact they were
able to put something over on the cops. To Maria,
cops were just the fuzz. Cops spelt trouble for her
father. Cops meant Welfare, and hospitals, and she
didn't know which one scared her the most.

"At least," Pete said to Wizard, "she's not in that
crummy room. She's cared for. That was all I wanted,
wasn't it? And she is a minor, so even when the gangs
gets pulled in, she wouldn't be booked. Why, those

181

hoods might even get a doctor to try and fix her up."
He groaned. "And I sure as hell can't go to the Chief
and say, 'Look, there's a kid telepath running the
numbers.' Not even if I knew where to find her."
Wizard nuzzled his hand.

"Now what would Al Finch be wanting with a
high-priced specialist from Minneapolis?" the desk
sergeant asked Pete when he came on duty the next
night. "He's got medics and nurses hopping in and
out of his pad like he had the Asian crud."

"Better him than you," said Pete, automatically
laughing. But he was thinking Maria!

Pete found out where Al Finch was living. Outside
the building, Pete saw a truck from a pet shop deliver
a triple cage of singing birds, and he knew his hunch
was right. Finch was making book with Maria's mind-
reading ability.

"Maria," Pete called in his head, "Maria, answer
me. I know you're there. What you're doing, reading
numbers, is wrong. It's causing a lot of trouble. It'll
get you in trouble, too."

Pete, came Maria's voice in his head, sweetly, hap-
pily, Pete, I'm not hungry anymore and I have so
many pretty birds. And you should see how nice Pa
looks now he's got a good job. I'm clean, and my
#whole room is clean. I've got pretty dresses.

Her giggle was light and tinkling. Smelly men come
and poke me around. They say they want to fix me.
They can't, of course. Some of them say it out loud
and some tell Al they can. Then they say inside they
can't, that I'm a hopeless case. She giggled again, as
if this were the funniest thing she'd ever said.

"Maria, I won't say Al isn't trying to help you and
make you happy. But he gets more out of you than
you get out of him. He's just using you. You miss get-
ting the numbers through once and he'll hurt you."

Maria's laugh bubbled up. / don't let myself get
hurt. And Al's all right. He thinks the damnedest
things sometimes. She giggled naughtily. He says he's
my sugar daddy.

"Maria, you shouldn't use such words."

Maria's incredible laugh chimed through his head.

182

Al says it's cute the way I talk. And he really does
like me.

"I'll bet," Pete said in a harsh tone. "Look, Maria,
you can have the birds, and the good food, and a
good job for your father, but get them from the right
sort of people. Al Finch is dangerous! He's got a rec-
ord for assault, attempted homcide, you name it. I'm
afraid he'll hurt you."

He wouldn't dare, Maria replied with complete
self-assurance. I'm very important to him, and I
know he means it. Do you know I have my own Coke
machine?

"Maria, Maria," Pete said with a groan. Oh God,
how do I explain? How, please, do I have the nerve
to try? "Maria," he called as loud as he could in his
mind, "Maria, promise me one thing. You get scared
of Al, or worried, just call Wizard or Pirate. Any of
the dogs. They'll protect you. Just call the dogs!"

Wizard barked twice, paused, barked twice again.
So did three stray dogs across the street. And a cat
walking on a nearby fence meowed in the same se-
quence.

Pete tried not to worry. But she was so frail; well-
fed or not, she couldn't have great reserves of energy.
Finch might kill her without meaning to. He'd have
to find a way to stop Finch using her.

On his day off, following a strong hunch, Pete
hung around the betting windows at the Brandywine
Raceway. Sure enough, Maria's father shuffled up to
the ten-dollar window, just before the second race.
Pete sidled up to him.

"You tell Al to be careful with Maria," he said.
"He can use her too much, you know. He could kill
her. And the cops'll tumble to Finch soon enough.
They got a lead."

"Who're you?" the little man asked nervously, his
face twitching as his red-rimmed eyes slid over Pete's
face. "Fuzz?" He scurried away.

Pete had had a good look at his face, though, and
was able to identify him in the rogue's gallery as Hec-
tor Barres. He had a record; vagrancy, drunk and
disorderly, petty larceny.

No appeal based on Maria's frailty would reach
183

Barres. Right now he had all he wanted from life.
Barres' thoughts were only for the money rolling in
today. Tomorrow, and Maria's welfare, were far from
his mind.

Now that he had Maria's last name, Pete checked
hospital records and found her date of birth. Her
mother had been picked up unconscious, already in
active labor, and brought into the emergency ward.
The intern who had delivered Maria had expressed
doubts that the infant would survive, due to prenatal
malnutrition.

Maria's mother had died in the same hospital two
years later. The cause was neglect. Not on the part of
the hospital. She had had tuberculosis, diabetes, and
a coronary condition. She had been severely beaten
about the abdomen and died of internal hemmor-
rhaging before they could operate.

Pete took to talking to Wizard on the beat at night,
hoping that Maria would overhear him. He told Wiz-
ard all about Maria's mother, about her father's
record, about how Maria could use her great gift to
help people. He told her all he knew about paranor-
mal powers, his feeling that she must conserve her
energies; and he repeatedly cautioned her to call
Wizard or Pirate if she felt endangered. Sometimes
he had the feeling she listened to him. He knew she
often talked to Wizard.

Then Al Finch stepped up his operations to in-
clude narcotics, apparently having approached and
reached an agreement with the local drug pushers in
an unprecedented crossover in vice. Pete and the
police went quietly berserk. No known pushers were
suddenly in evidence. There was no direct contact
with or indirect approach to Finch. All known pushers
were clean when they were picked up on routine
searches. Not a sniff on them. But the stuff was circu-
lating in greater quantities than had ever reached Wil-
mington before.

"Maria," Pete called resolutely to her from the
corner opposite Al's apartment. "Do you know what
drugs do to people?"

Sure. They have the coolest dreams to read.

184

"Do you take it?" He gasped, frightened.

/ don't need to, Maria laughed with a mirth that
no longer chimed. Her voice--the essence of the
voice she sent--was hard and brassy. I dig it from
others. It's boss, man.

"Then dig what happens when they can't pay to
get it, Maria. When they have withdrawal. Dig that
and see how boss it is!"

But, Pete honey: you gave me the idea ysurself.
It's much easier to grab the stuff from . . . well, never
mind where. Her voice was sickeningly smug. Easier
than reading numbers out of Chicago. You said I
was to take care of myself. I am.

"I don't know why I bother with you. You know
you're doing wrong, Maria. And when you get hurt,
it'll be your own fault." Then . . .

He didn't know what hit him. When he came to,
he was in the emergency ward with Joe bending
over him anxiously.

"Brother, you've been out three hours and there
isn't a mark on you."

Pete carefully touched his sore head with explor-
atory fingers. He hurt all over, every nerve felt twisted,
his head half unscrewed.

"I got clobbered." The phrase had never seemed
so apt.

"Yeah, I know," Joe replied drily. "But with what?"

"Would you believe a girl telepath?" Pete asked
in a plaintive voice.

"Right now," Joe said wearily, "I'd believe an in-
vasion of little green men."

Pete looked up at him, startled by the credulous
bitterness in the young doctor's voice.

"What'd you mean, Joe?"

Annoyed with himself, Joe grimaced, then swore
under his breath. He stepped to the door, looked up
and down the hall. Closing the door tightly, with one
final cautious look through the small glass insert, he
asked, "Do you know where Al Finch is getting nar-
cotics, Pete?"

The policeman groaned. "From the locked pharmacy
cabinets of the hospitals."

18?

Joe's eyes widened in stunned amazement. "How
in hell did you know? Hahlgren didn't report it until
noon and you've been in dreamland since then."

It was a relief to Pete to be able to tell someone his
secret. When he finished, Joe shook his head slowly

from side to side.

"Believe you, I must. The drug cupboard was bare
at eight this morning. The question is, what do we do

now?"

A few days later. Hector Barres was admitted to
the hospital, stricken with a paralysis of the spine.
Some of the drugs Maria had lifted from the hospital
shelves were not pure opium. One was a thebaine
compound which acted like strychnine and com-
monly caused spinal paralysis. Her father died of a
heart attack shortly after his admission.

Suddenly all the dogs began to howl. Every dog in
Wilmington added his note to the clamor. The dogs
howled for a full ear-splitting hour despite every at-
tempt to silence them. The SPCA and the Humane
Association, police and firemen were called in--un-
successfully--to disband a huge pack of hysterical
dogs, cats, and tree beasts congregated in Maria's

neighborhood.

Only when Maria released them, did the animals
disband, melting away in a matter of moments. Pete
and Joe took up a position across from her windows.

"Maria," Pete said. "I brought Joe with me. He
did everything he could to save your father. But
you've been stealing the wrong kind of drugs. It was
one of those that killed your father."

/ know, Maria said in a flat, hard tone. There was
an odd blur to her projected voice that had always
rung so clear and true in Pete's mind. I've been . . .

experimenting a little.

There was a long pause. Pete suddenly experi-
enced wild grief, a sense of terrified guilt which was
quickly overlaid by a sullen resentment; and, finally,

an irrational feeling of satisfaction.

He was a nasty old man. He was mean to me. He

killed my mother.

'186

Joe caught Pete's arm, his eyes wide with repug-
nance and dread.

You go away, Pete, Maria said. Or I'll set my
friends on you.

"Maria, I don't care how much you threaten me,"
Pete said stolidly. "I have to tell you you're doing
wrong."

Bug off, fuzz, Maria snapped. I'm having fun. I
never had fun before in my life. I'm living it up good
now. You go away.

"Pete," Joe cautioned urgently.

"Damn it, Maria ..."

This time when Pete woke up in the emergency
ward, Joe was in the next bed. They managed to talk
the intern on duty into entering "heat prostration"
on their charts as the cause of collapse. They prom-
ised faithfully to go to their respective homes and
rest for the next twenty-four hours. Out on the hot
street, Pete suggested that a couple of beers would
start their unexpected holiday the right way, so they
adjourned to the nearest air-conditioned bar.

The dogs began to howl again as they crossed the
street.

"If we'd told anyone why the dogs howled," Pete
said, moodily doodling in the moisture on the beer
glass, "they would send us to the funny farm."

"Would you believe a hopped up preadolescent
telepath?" Joe asked wistfully, and raised his glass
in a mock toast.

"I only told her the truth."                         !

"For truth she puts holes in our heads."

"All right, wise guy, what should I have done?"

"How do I know?" Joe asked with a helpless ges-
ture of his hands. "My specialty's going to be internal
medicine, not head-shrinking or pediatrics. I'm as
lousy at this sort of work as you are." He thought for
a while, holding his head. "The trouble, Pete, lies in
neither you nor me . . . nor Maria. The trouble is the
situation and the circumstances. If she'd had the
sense to get born a Dupont instead of a Barres . . ."
And he made a slicing motion with one hand.

They got drunker and drunker, somehow agreeing
on only one thing: they were both so sensitive in the

1'87

head bone that they couldn't give a j.d. brat the
spanking she so richly deserved.
Or rescue her from hell.

Success on a small scene went to Al Finch's head.
He decided that Wilmington offered too little scope
for his operation's potential. Pete got the word from
the desk sergeant that Finch had hired a private
plane and a private ambulance.

Pete called Joe Lavelle, told him to meet him
across from Maria's at once. Joe arrived in time to
watch Maria being carried from the apartment on a
stretcher.

"God Almighty, look," Pete cried. "Al Finch,
framed by canaries."

Executing an intricate shuffle step, the gang leader
was maneuvering the elaborate five-foot cylindrical
triple birdcage through the door, all the while bellow-
ing conflicting orders at his subordinates. That kept
them bobbing so solicitously between Al and Maria
that they all got royally in each other's way.

Then the rear stretcher-bearer tripped on the un-
even sidewalk. He went down on one knee, losing
his grip on the handles. Maria, her tiny body
strapped to the stretcher, was jolted. The forward
bearer, unaware for a moment of the accident, con-
tinued on and pulled the handles out of his compan-
ion's grip so that Maria, head downward, was
dragged jouncingly along the sidewalk. With a yelp,
Al leaped forward, unceremoniously depositing the
canary cage on the lawn, where it rested at a danger-
ous tilt. He collided with one of his cohorts who had
also jumped to the rescue. The two of them suc-
ceeded in startling the forward bearer and the front
end of Maria's stretcher dropped with a second jar-
ring jolt.

Like the incredible noise that issues from a cy-
phering organ played full through faulty stops, a
chorus of strident howls arose. Starting with the
piercing yelps of nearby dogs, it grew in intensity and
volume as Maria, battered and pain-racked, sum-
moned aid. It came bounding in answer to her call.
With uncharacteristic ferocity, three poodles and a

,188

terrier launched themselves at the stretcher men.
Before Finch could touch Maria, a collie and two
boxers cut him off, snapping and snarling. The in-
dignant doorman was tripped by a frantic cocker,
who plunged at him from the lobby.

"Christ Almighty, she's called all the dogs," Joe
cried.

A yelping, yapping, yipping vortex of sound with
a rumbling, roaring ground-bass enveloped the area.
The street soon became a seething mass of dogs, from
ragged Scotties to leaping Dalmatians. More kept
arriving on the scene, many dragging snapped ropes
and chains, towing stakes, one even hauling a dog-
house.

"She's called too many! She'll get hurt," Pete
groaned.

As one, Pete and Joe started across the street, step-
ping on and over dog bodies. Pete caught a glimpse of
a protective ring forming around Maria's man-
abandoned stretcher.

"Maria! Maria!" he shouted over the tumult. "Call
off the dogs. Call them off!"

The sheer press of numbers would overrun her.
Kicking, flailing, Pete waded on. A cat, leaping from
a stopped car roof, raked him with her claws. Joe
reached the curb and fell, momentarily lost under
the bounding bodies.

Suddenly, as if cut off by an invisible conductor,
all sound ceased. The silence was as terrifying as the
noise, but now the momentum of the charging animals
faltered. Pete made it to the sidewalk in that hiatus.
Neither Maria nor stretcher nor sidewalk was visible
under the smooth and brindled, spotted, mottled,
rough and smooth blanket of dogs and occasional
cats.

Cursing wildly, Pete and Joe labored, throwing the
stunned animals out of the way until a space was
cleared around the overturned stretcher. The upset
bird cage rolled down to the sidewalk, coming to rest
with the bent door uppermost. A flurry of orange and
yellow feathers, frightened canaries flew hysterically
aloft, their frantic chirps ominous and shrill.

Unable to move, Pete watched as Joe carefully
189

r

turned the stretcher over. The two men stood looking
down at Maria's crushed and bloodied body, trampled
by the zeal of her would-be protectors. Then, moved
by some obscure impulse, Pete joined her hands.

At this point, the dogs, released from the weird
control that had summoned and then immobilized
them, remembered ancient enmities. The abortive
rescue mission turned into a thousand private battles.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Pete saw Wizard
coming hell-for-leather down the street. Finch stag-
gered to his feet, clawing his way up, using the bird
cage as a support. With a howl, Wizard knocked him
down again. Pete grabbed the man and arrested him
for disturbing the peace. Wizard stood guard, in
much better shape than any of Maria's other pro-
tectors, thanks to his late arrival.

The news story never mentioned that a human
had been killed in the great dog riot. But it was noted
that the unearthly canine choruses that had been
plaguing Wilmington ended with that unscheduled
concert.

But sometimes now when Pete Roberts is walking
the beat with his K-9 partner. Wizard will suddenly
start acting itchy and nervous. He whines and pulls,
straining against the lead.

"Heel," Pete says stolidly, pretending nothing's
happened.

One of these days I'll really put on the pressure.

"Finder's Keeper," "A Proper Santa Claus," and
"Smallest Dragon-boy" were written at Roger El-
wood's behest. He wanted short stories by McCafFrey.
My estimable agent, Virginia Kidd, said that it was
best not to limit McCafFrey, so I had to. The original
ending of "A Proper Santa Claus" did not suit its
intended market. I have reinstated my downbeat end-
ing because it is logical.

190                                                   I9f

Finder's Keeper

PETER TURNED IN FOUR DOZEN GOLF BALLS

including the monogrammed ones that Mr. Roche had
been yelling about. The course manager was almost
cheerful as he counted out Peter's finder's fee.

"You've got a positive genius for scrounging balls,

Pete. Don't know how you do it."

"My mother says everyone's got something they're
good at," Peter replied, and began to edge out the door
of the stuffy office. Comments like that made him nerv-
ous: he half-expected he'd given away his secret, and
that he and his mother would be forced to run away

again.

The manager only grunted and muttered about keep-
ing the members happy. Peter ducked out, running
home with his pocketful of dollars. Mother would be
pleased, although she didn't like him using his trick of
"finding" for "material gain," as she put it. But since
she'd been too sick to work at the diner, they had
precious little choice. Peter had wanted to get a full-
time job as a caddy but his mother had resisted.

"You can't be like me, Peter. You got to have edu-
cation and training. Your father was a smart man, but
he didn't have enough education." Dedication made
her eyes bum in her thin face. "It's education that
matters in this world, Peter. You got to go to school."
She emphasized her last statement by stringing the
words out and enunciating them clearly.

Peter adored his mother but he hated her attempts
to imitate a "country club" accent: her habit of quoting
country clich6s'only ruined the effect she wanted to

produce.

192

Seven dollars he was bringing home today. Not bad,
added to the twenty-two he'd made caddying over the
weekend. This week's rent, food, and some of the med-
icine were now paid for. If he could just talk Mother
into letting him take a week off school now that the
rains had stopped and spring sun was drying the greens,
he'd really make some money! Mr. Roche always
tipped a fiver, especially when Peter kept track of those
monogrammed balls of his that he always swatted into

the rough.

"Son, if you could patent that ball-homing instinct of
yours," Mr. Roche had said more often than Peter
liked, "you'd be a millionaire!"

It had made Peter almost scared to continue caddy-
ing for Mr. Roche, but the money was too tempting.

He came around the comer of their house trailer
and skidded to an abrupt stop in the mud. Ken Far-
go's green Mustang was parked on the concrete apron.
The only good thing about his mother being sick, in
Peter's estimation, was that she didn't have to be pleas-
ant to creeps like Ken Fargo.

"He's pleasant enough and all that," his mother had
said and then shuddered, smiling quickly to reassure
Peter. "There's just something . . . slippery about
him." She sighed. "I suppose he can't help being sour
and suspicious. People do and say the most awful things
to collect insurance! And he's lonely."

His mother would understand being lonely. And
she'd understand the awful things people do and say
--particularly if you're different in any way. But the
knowledge hadn't made her sour, just more lonely, and
sad, and cautious. Why she called Peter's knack of
finding things a "gift," he didn't know. He felt it was
a curse. It had brought them more grief, kept them
moving around in the period before he'd learned not
to "find" everything lost...

And why did Ken Fargo have to get unlost? They
had thought him well gone when the insurance com-
pany that used him as an investigator had called off
the search for the hijacked furs. There had been a re-
ward of $15,000 for the return of those coats. Try as
he would, Peter hadn't been able to figure out a legiti-
mate way to "find" those furs. He hadn't been with

193

the searchers when they'd looked in the old lead mine,
or he'd have "found" the furs under the concealing
layer of rubble in the ore carts. He couldn't go there
alone now. That old shaft was dangerous, the supports
worm-ridden and damp-rotted. Every kid in town had
been warned, on pain of a strapping, to stay away.

Peter paused at the front of the house. He didn't
want to go in. He didn't like the way Ken Fargo
looked at his mother, and there wasn't much a thirteen-
year-old boy could do to a six-foot man who'd fought
his way out of some nasty comers (Fargo's words),
and looked it from the scars on his face and knuckles.
Peter took a deep breath and stomped up the two
boxes that made steps into the trailer.

Peter knew the moment he walked in that Fargo had
been badgering his mother. She was flushed and wring-
ing her hands.

"Peter!" She all but swooped down on him. "Did
you have a good day?" She was terribly relieved to see

him.

"Sure did, Mother." He held out the seven dollar
bills. "Hello, Mr. Fargo." He had to acknowledge the
man's presence or his mother would chew him out for
bad manners no matter how much she disliked Fargo.

"Long time no see," the man replied, jerking his
shoulders to settle a flashy gold sports jacket. He saun-
tered toward the back of the caravan. "Sorry your ma's
been ill. Should've let me know."
Peter blinked at him in surprise.
"Seven dollars," his mother was saying, her voice
more natural now. "Oh, Peter, that's wonderful. Were
you caddying?"

"That's just for scrounging golf balls."
Something happened in the room, some indefinable
change in the an: that registered against Peter's senses.
When he looked at Ken Fargo, the man was occupied
in lighting a cigarette. Peter glanced at his mother but
she was proudly smoothing out the bills and arranging
them all face up before she put them in her handbag.

"Peter's such a help," she said to Fargo, an artificial
heartiness in her soft voice. "We've been just fine. I'll
be back at work this week, but it was very nice of you

194

to drop by and see us." She took two steps toward
Fargo, her hand extended.

Fargo ignored the hand and sat down as if he meant
to make a long visit. The knock at the door was a
welcome diversion and Peter nearly collided with his
mother as they both answered the summons.

"Oh, Mrs. Kieman, have you seen my Victor?" It
was Mrs. Anderson from two trailers down. Her three-
year-old had such a perverse habit of straying that the
distraught mother had taken to tying him to an old dog
run. "I told Henry the rope was frayed. I was doing
the wash and I just didn't notice. I suppose I should've
checked when I didn't hear him fretting, but I wanted
to finish ... so I don't know how long he's been gone.
Have you seen him? What with being home and all?"

Peter bristled at the implied insult, but his mother
shot him a look, for she'd often let him "find" Victor.
Mrs. Anderson was a nice woman, his mother had said,
and had more than a wayward child to burden her.

"No, Mrs. Anderson, I haven't seen Victor this
morning," his mother replied.

"Which way is he likely to go, Mrs. Anderson?"
Ken Fargo asked.

"Oh, I just dunno. He could be halfway to town by
now." The woman twisted back the lock of lank
bleached hair that had escaped its pins. She swiveled
her body slightly, looking pointedly at the green Mus-
tang.

"Well, that's no problem. C'mon, Pete, you and me
will take a little spin and see if we can locate the
lady's wandering boy."

Peter gave his mother a swift look, and she gave him
a barely perceptible nod.

"Shouldn't be no time at all before we have him
safely back in your arms, Mrs. Anderson. Now don't
worry. For one thing I'm an insurance investigator,
and finding lost things is my business."

Again that electric feeling charged the air, but be-
fore Peter could appeal to his mother, Ken Fargo had
hustled him out the door and into the car, all the time
driveling reassurances to Mrs. Anderson.

"Roll down that window, Petey boy," the man said,
and Peter set his teeth against the irritating familiarity.

19?

"Keep a sharp eye out on your side. I'll take care of
mine."

Fargo's tone, smugly confident, gave Peter fair
warning. Somehow Fargo thought that Peter could
"find" things. Somehow Peter had to discourage him.

"You just sing out when you see that brat, Pete. This
car'll stop on a dime and hand you back six cents--
inflation, you know, ha ha ha." Fargo deftly turned
the Mustang into the road to town. Peter didn't protest
although he knew that Victor Anderson was moving
steadily in the opposite direction. "And I've got a bone
to pick with you."

Startled, Peter looked around, but the man's frown
was bogus.

"You should've let me know your mother was ill.
She's a fine woman, your ma, and deserves the best.
She could've had it if you'd let me know."

"We got along all right."

"Yeah, but she'd be much better now with the kind
of food and care I could've provided. And I'd like to
provide for her; you get what I mean?" An elbow
prodded Peter in the ribs.

"We prefer to do for ourselves, thank you."

"You're a good kid, Peter, but there're things a man
can do that a boy can't."

Peter wanted to wipe that look from Fargo's face.

"Hey, you keep your eyes peeled for that kid. Let's
find him in a hurry and get back. I got something to
ask your ma and you might as well hear it, too."

Peter obediently faced the window, but they reached
the middle of the town without a sight of any child.

"How about that? We gotta search the whole town.
I thought you said the kid went into town."

"No, sir. Mrs. Anderson said she thought he'd be
halfway to town by now.

"Well, goddammit, where is he?"

Peter looked Ken Fargo straight in the eyes. "I don't
know."

The man's face turned grim, then as suddenly as-
sumed a forced good humor. "All right, kid. If he didn't
go into town, maybe he went out of town?"

"Maybe someone's found him already. There's Of-
ficer Scordus."

196

The policeman was not the least bit pleased to hear
that the Anderson kid was missing again, and his re-
marks confirmed Peter's private opinion that Mrs. An-
derson was a prime nuisance in the tiny community of
Jennings, Colorado. Fargo brandished his investigator's
credentials, an additional irritant to Scortius, who'd
been forced to muck around the countryside trying to
find the lost shipment of furs "alleged" to have been
stashed somewhere near Jennings.

"Well, I'll see who we can find to help track the
brat."

"I'll do the main road out of town."

Officer Scortius grunted and waddled off.

As they drew alongside her trailer, Mrs. Anderson
was hanging over the bottom half of her door, the pic-
ture of maternal anxiety. Clearly Victor had not been
recovered, but Fargo assured her heartily that it was
only a matter of moments, and gunned the Mustang
countryward.

"Okay, Pete, let's find that kid and end this soap
opera," Fargo said between his teeth. "How far up the
road is he?"

"Gee, how would I know?"

"How would you know? Because you'd know!" The
man's tone emphasized his certainty and Peter felt sick
fear curl up from the pit of his belly. "I get around
the country, Petey boy. And I hear things, interesting
things." He paused and his voice took on a conciliatory
tone. "Look, Petey boy, I like your mother. I want to
take care of her the way a man can. She shouldn't have
to work herself sick to give you a decent place to live
and a good education. I know how set she is to see you
educated. But you don't need much book learning to
get ahead. Not you. You know, with your trick, we
could be a team, you and me. In fact, we would be a
top-drawer unbeatable team of private investigators."

That insistent, persuasive voice was bad enough; the
arguments were worse. Fargo knew exactly how to get
to Peter.

"Wouldn't that be great? Your ma not having to
work anymore? And you, kid, you've been handi-
capped. You've made mistakes. It was foolish, you
know, to find Lyie Grauber's missing stocks! To say

197

nothing of that Cadillac in Colorado Springs!" Fargo's
laugh was unpleasant and Peter cringed. That Cadil-
lac business had meant they'd had to leave one of the
nicest apartments they'd ever had. That was when they
had decided that Peter better check with his mother
before he "found" anything. There'd been a fortune in
old five-dollar bills hidden in that Cadillac--and he
couldn't tell the authorities how he'd known where it
had been hidden.

"Yes," Fargo was saying in an ominously casual
way, "the police are still looking for the kid who told
them where to find that Caddy--and skipped. They
want him bad."

The Mustang, like the Cadillac, had become a trap.

"You're mistaking me for someone else, Mr. Fargo,"
Peter managed to say in a steady, apologetic voice.

"Oh, no, I'm not. I'm a top-flight investigator be-
cause I'm smart. I put isolated clues together and come
up with open-and-shut convictions."

If you looked adults in the face, they tended to think
you couldn't be lying; but it took every ounce of self-
control that Peter had learned in thirteen years to look
Ken Fargo squarely in the eyes.

"You are wrong, Mr. Fargo. I've never been in
Colorado Springs. And gee, if I could find things like
you do and get reward money, I sure would have tried
to for my mother's sake."

"How do you know about reward money, kid?"

"Mother told me that your company gives you ten
percent of the value of anything you recover for them."

Fargo grunted at that, but just on the other side of
the town limit sign, he braked, swearing with impa-
tience.

"Where's that brat? C'mon, kid, where is he? You
know!"

And Peter did. Victor was cutting across the Omers'
meadow, out of sight of the road, and heading toward
the old mines. Peter knew he'd better find the kid soon,
but he'd have to get rid of Ken Fargo first and how
was he going to manage to do that?

"No, Mr. Fargo, I don't know." Peter stared the man
straight in the eyes; "I wish I did because Mrs. Ander-
198

son always tips fifty cents when someone brings Victor
home."

"You made seven bucks today finding golf balls.
What about that?"

Peter forced himself to grin. "All you have to do is
watch where Mr. Roche slices his balls and then go
bring 'em in when he isn't looking. Half the ones I
brought in today were in the pond anyway."

Doubt flickered across Ken Fargo's face.

"Honest, Mr. Fargo, you're wrong about me."

A big Olds came piling down the road toward town.
Cursing under his breath, Fargo pushed himself out of
the Mustang and nagged the big car down.

"Yeah? What's the trouble, fella? No gas?" asked
the driver, sticking his head out the window. Peter saw,
with sinking heart, that it was Mr. Roche. He tried to
squinch down in the seat. "Hi there, Peter. Find any
more of my balls for me?" He flicked his cigarette to
the roadside and gave Fargo his attention. "Kid's a
genius finding m'balls in the grass. Like he could home
in on them or something. Caddy for me, Saturday,
Peter? Ten sharp?"

Limp with defeat, Peter nodded and sank down in
the bucket seat, swallowing fiercely against the lump in
his throat.

"Seen anything of a kid, too young to be off on his
own?" Fargo asked.

"Kid? No. Nothing on the road from here to Hiber-
nia."

Mr. Roche drove off in the Olds, leaving Peter at
Fargo's mercy.

" 'Kid homes in on them or something,' hutT? 'No,
Mr. Fargo, you're wrong about me.'" Fargo's voice
was savage as he slid into the driver's seat. "All
right, Peter me lad. Now, unless you want some trou-
ble, real trouble, with the cops in Colorado Springs,
because they're looking for you, you'd better tell me
where those furs are!"

"Furs?"

Fargo grabbed Peter by the wrist. He was as strong
as he'd boasted, and the bones in Peter's arm rubbed
together painfully in his grip. Blunt fingers gouged into

199

the tendons until Peter had all he could do not to cry
out.

"You know, don't you?"

The pain had caught Peter off guard and his face
must have given away his secret knowledge, for Fargo

swore.

"How long have you known?" Each word was punc-
tuated by a flexing of those implacable fingers on his
wrist. "D'you realize you done me out of fifteen thou-
sand dollars?" Just as Peter was certain Fargo would
break his arm, the man's attitude altered. "Okay, kid.
I understand. You and your mother got scared after
that Cadillac caper. Well, you don't have to be scared
anymore. I said we'd be a team and we will. No one
will think it funny if I find things. I'm a first-rate in-
vestigator to begin with. But with you . . . okay,
where're the furs?"

"In the old lead mine." Peter pointed toward the
hills. And Victor.

"We searched there already." Fargo's expression was
suspicious and menacing. "You lead me on, kid . . ."
and he raised his hand warningly.

"The furs are hidden under the rubble in the old
ore carts."

"How do you know? You seen em?"

"No, but that's where they are."

"You mean, we walked up and down past that loot?"

If they were mice, they would've bit you, Peter re-
cited one of his mother's off-quoted phrases to him-
self. Thinking of his mother gave him a second hold
on his courage. Pargo knew, but if his knowledge went
no further than an old mine shaft ...

"The road to that mine's around here, isn't it?"

Peter told Fargo the way.

"Now you're using the old noggin, Petey boy." Co-
operation made Fargo good-natured. "Say, kid, how
do you do it?"

"What?"

"No more of the innocent act." Fargo's voice took
on its dangerous edge. "How do you find things you've
never seen?"

"I can't always," Peter replied, trying to sound du-
bious. "It's just when things are on people's minds a

200

lot, like that Cadillac or the furs, I sort of get a pic-
ture where they are. Sometimes the picture is clearer
than other times, and I know the location."

"What's with the golf balls? You must've found hun-
dreds of stupid golf balls these past coupla months.
Penny-ante stuff--when I think of the lists of lost, or
strayed, items on the company's records ... I can
make a fortune!"

Peter swallowed. "I", not the more diplomatic "we."
The Mustang swerved up the last bend to the mine.
"It's getting dark, Mr. Fargo," Peter said. "We should
get Victor. He's up there. We can come back tomor-
row for the..."

"Forget that stupid brat! I want those furs . .. now!"
Fargo pulled a huge handlight from under his seat
and gestured with it for Peter to lead the way.

"The mine's dangerous, Mr. Fargo. And the ore
carts are pretty far down..."

There was no reprieve in Fargo's eyes. Peter turned
toward the shaft and started walking.

The walls were dripping with the recent spring thaws,
and the tunnel had a clammy chill as they penetrated
slowly down, turning the gentle bend that led into the
bowels of the mine.

"That's a new fall," Peter said nervously as they
scrambled over a soggy pile of mud.

Fargo shined the spotlight at the sagging supports.
"Yeah, so let's get this business over with. Fifteen thou-
sand will do a lot for us, Petey boy. For you, your
mother, and me."

"Why don't you just take the furs and leave us alone,
Mr. Fargo? It's not right for me to find things for
money."

"Who says?" Fargo snorted at his altruism. "Like the
old saying, Petey, 'Finders keepers, losers weepers.'
And, Petey boy, I'm the finder's keeper from now on."

The smile on Fargo's face chilled Peter worse than
the tunnel's cold. But the smile disappeared when they
both heard the groaning of wood and the dribbling
sound of dirt falling from a height.

"How much further?" Fargo asked. "This place isn't
safe."

The ore carts were right up against the old fall which
201

had closed the mine. Fargo hoisted Peter into the
first cart. The boy dug into the loose earth layering
the cart, and Fargo swore as Peter unearthed the first
of the plastic sacks. "They all that big? Christ, we can't
pack those up that tunnel. Take all night." He heaved
the plastic bags to the ground and the air puffed them
up. He glanced up the tunnel, measuring its width. "I
bet I can just get the Mustang down here." And he
started off.

"Mr. Fargo, would you leave me the light?"

With the torch pointed forward, Fargo's smile was
malevolent in the dim tunnel. "What? A big kid like
you afraid of the dark? What could find you here?"
He laughed. "Just think of all the things fifteen thou-
sand will buy!"

Peter watched with a rapidly increasing anxiety as
the gleam of the spot disappeared around the bend,
leaving him in a total blackout.

"Afraid of the dark?" The taunt frightened him not
half as much as the life looming with grim certainty
before him. Not all the warmth of the pelts on which
he crouched could have thawed the fear in Peter's
heart.

An ominous creak, almost overhead, startled him
further. "The finder's keeper," Fargo had said. There
were darker death traps than an old mine shaft, and
bleaker lightless vistas.

Nonetheless Peter cried aloud when he saw the re-
turn of light and heard the sound of the Mustang bump-
ing along the cart tracks.

"Okay, move your butt and haul these furs into the
car, Petey. On the double."

Another warning rumbled overhead and a gout of
water spewed from the support directly above the ore
carts. Peter grabbed the plastic bags, tripping over the
trailing length of them.

"Keep 'em off the wet ground, you stupid jerk.
They're worth a fortune."

Peter mumbled an apology as he crammed the bags
into the car trunk. The plastic refused to give up its
supply of air, and Fargo was cursing as he helped.
Then he storme^ down the tunnel for more furs, drag-
ging Peter with him. The light from the Mustang's

202

headlights helped relieve the gloom, although its ex-
haust was a blue plume in the cul-de-sac of the rockfall.
Two loads and the trunk was full. Peter stood with an
armful of plastic sacks wondering how they could pos-
sibly get them all in the sports car.

"Don't stand there, stupid. Dump 'em on the back
seat."

That, too, was full shortly, so Peter heaved his next
load onto the passenger seat, falling over it as he lost
his balance. Accidentally he hit the wheel, and the
horn. The noise startled Fargo into dropping his load,
but his curses were covered by a long low rumble. Mud
and ooze rained down.

Peter screamed, gesturing frantically to the bulging
overhead beam. Then, suddenly he found himself
stumbling over plastic bags, desperately pulling at Far-
go's arm to get the man to move. Peter remembered
scrambling and clawing through wet heavy mud. Then
something struck him across the head.

His skull was on fire, his body rigid. Certain he was
buried in the tunnel, he tried to move but his arms
were held to his side. His fingers clawed but met
fluffy soft warm blanketing. There was noise and
confusion around him. He was aware of breathing
fresh air, and yet. . . there was thudding and rumbling
underneath him which echoed through his pain-filled
head.

The mine had collapsed! But he was wrapped in a
blanket. He was safe.

"Yeah, you wouldn't believe how fast that Mustang
went into reverse. The surprising thing is I made it out
in one piece at all. 'Course the company will see to the
body work. All in the line of duty, Scortius! And I got
what I went after. I found the furs."

"I" found the furs? Peter cringed at Fargo's arro-
gance.

"Considering you were out looking for the Anderson
kid, you got double luck," the officer was saying en-
viously.

Fargo chuckled. "Two finds in one day. Not bad,
huh? Say, Doc, how long does it take that ambulance
to get here? I want Petey boy given the best of care.

203

I'll foot the bill myself. And, of course, we should get
the little feller back to Mrs. Anderson, too."

"The ambulance's coming," Dr. Wingard said, and
there was something in his voice that made Peter think
that the doctor didn't much like Ken Fargo. "I'm just
as anxious as you are about Peter's condition. I want

an x ray of that skull. .."

"I thought you said he had just a flesh wound?"

"There's a possibility of concussion--"

"Concussion?" Fargo was startled.

"Yes, it was a wound caused by a falling object.
Sufficient force to crack the skull. And I want to run
an EKG on Peter. I don't like the sound of that
heart.. ."

"Heart?"

A fierce pounding in Peter's chest echoed the panic

in Fargo's voice.

"Yes. Molly Kieman's got enough on her mind,
but I spotted an irregularity in Peter's heartbeat when
I gave him a physical in school. Might be nothing at
all. No mention of rheumatic fever on his school rec-
ord."

"Rheumatic fever?"

"I'm the cautious type. I'd just like to check."

"Oh."

Peter was somewhat encouraged by the dubious
sound of Fargo's rejoinder. Then he remembered Jorie
Grant. She'd had a rheumatic heart and couldn't take
gym; stayed out of school in hard weather, in general
was a real twerp. Be like her? Peter groaned.

"Hey, he's coming to," Fargo cried.

The air about Peter seemed to press in on him and
he had a sense of suffocation. A hand grabbed his chin
and shook him.

"Hey, Petey. Speak to me!"

There was a scuffle and an exclamation of surprise

from Fargo.

"H you don't mind, Mr. Fargo," Dr. Wingate said
in a hard icy voice. "I'm the doctor here." A firm
hand turned back the blanket and found Peter's wrist.
"And for your information, you don't shake concussion
cases." Boy, was Dr. Wingard angry! "Peter? Peter?
Can you hear me?" His voice was gentle again.
204

"Concussion." That word again. It triggered a series
of associations in Peter's mind and eventually made
him think of TV shows he'd seen. Maybe ... as his
mother used to say, there were more ways to kill a cat
than choking him with butter.

"Where am I?" He fluttered his eyelids like patients
did on "Dr. Kildare." The act became real for the
searchlights of the police cars were trained in his direc-
tion, bright enough to stun his eyes.

"Peter, it's Dr. Wingard. How're you feeling?"

"My head hurts."

"I know, boy. We'll soon fix that. Can you open
your eyes again? And tell me how many fingers I'm
holding up?"

Peter blinked. He could see that the doctor was hold-
ing up three fingers. He blinked again, made his eyes
stay wide with fear.

"Who are you?" he asked, looking directly at the
doctor as if he'd never seen him. Then he looked un-
seeingly at Fargo. "Where am I?"

"How many fingers, Peter?"

"Fingers? Fingers?" Peter couldn't think how many
he ought to see if he didn't see the right number. But
he could see the dawning of disappointed frustration
and the fury of loss in Ken Fargo's face.

Losers weepers. Peter essayed a sob. After all, his
head hurt--and he wasn't supposed to be as brave
as Peter Kieman.

"Who are you? Where am I? My head hurts." But
the first sob was abruptly followed by deep hurtful ones
which Peter hadn't ordered.

"There, there, boy. Take it easy. You'll be all
right," the doctor said. He stood up, pulling Fargo
aside. Peter strained his ears. "That head injury seems
to be causing a little amnesia."

"Amnesia?"

"Oh, I don't think it's anything to worry about. A
few weeks' rest in the hospital, a careful regime for a
few months, and he'll be right as rain."

"Amnesia? And a bum heart?" Fargo glanced sourly
at Peter, who gave a weak groaning sob. "Look, Doc,
I've got to report to my company about finding those

20?

furs. You just send the bills for the kid to Midwestern.
Least we can do for him!"

"You'll be looking in on Peter?"

Peter kept his eyes tightly shut, but he was thinking
with all his strength: Go away. Ken Fargo!

Fargo cleared his throat and began to move away.

"Well, now, I'll certainly try to. You let me know
when he's completely recovered. If he gets his memory
back. And check out that bad heart, too."

Well now, Peter thought, Petey boy just wouldn't
ever recover from his amnesia. Not completely. And
not that part of his mind that made him valuable to
Fargo. Finder's keeper indeed!

Weariness settled in along with pain and Peter
closed his eyes tightly. It was reassuring to hear little
Victor Anderson blubbering somewhere. But what did
he have to cry about? He was found, wasn't he?

Peter would have to stop "finding" anything for a
while. Even Mr. Roche's golf balls. But he could blame
that on the crack on the head, too. He could still caddy.

Then, when he grew up, and without Mr. Ken Fargo
interfering with him and his mother, why he'd become
the toppest-fiight insurance investigator. And nobody
would consider it odd that he could find anything he

needed to.

As his mother often said, it was an ill wind that blew
nobody any good.

A Proper Santa Claus

JEREMY WAS PAINTING. HE USED HIS FINGERS

instead of the brush because he liked the feel of paint.
Blue was soothing to the touch, red was silky, and
orange had a gritty texture. Also he could tell when
a color was "proper" if he mixed it with his fingers. He
could hear his mother singing to herself, not quite on
pitch, but it was a pleasant background noise. It went
with the rhythm of his fingers stroking color onto the
paper.

He shaped a cookie and put raisins on it, big, plump
raisins. He attempted a sugar frosting but the white
kind of disappeared into the orange of the cookie. So
he globbed up chocolate brown and made an icing.
Then he picked the cookie out of the paper and ate it.
That left a hole in the center of the paper. It was an
excellent cookie, though it made his throat very dry.

Critically he eyed the remaining unused space. Yes,
there was room enough, so he painted a glass of Coke.
He had trouble representing the bubbles that're sup-
posed to bounce up from the bottom of the glass.
That's why the Coke tasted flat when he drank it.

It was disappointing. He'd been able to make the
cookie taste so good, why couldn't he succeed with the
Coke? Maybe if he drew the bubbles in first ... he
was running out of paper.

"Momma, Momma?"

"What is it, honey?"

"Can I have more paper? Please?"

"Honest, Jeremy, you use up more paper . . . Still,
it does keep you quiet and out of my hair . . . why,

207

whatever have you done with your paper? What are

those holes?"

Jeremy pointed to the round one. "That was a cookie

with raisins and choc'late icing. And that was a Coke

only I couldn't make the bubbles bounce."

His mother gave him "the look," so he subsided.
"Jeremy North, you use more paper than--than

a..."

"Newspaperman?" he suggested, grinning up at her.
Momma liked happy faces best.

"Than a newspaperman."

"Can you paint on newspaper?"

His mother blinked. "I don't see why not. And there's
pictures already. You can color them in." She oblig-
ingly rummaged in the trash and came up with several
discarded papers. "There you are, love. Enough sup-
plies to keep you in business a while. I hope."

Well, Jeremy hadn't planned on any business,
and newsprint proved less than satisfactory. There
wasn't enough white spaces to draw his paintings on,
and the newspaper soaked up his paints when he tried
to follow the already-pictures. So he carefully put the
paints away, washed his hands, and went outside to
play.

For his sixth birthday Jeremy North got a real
school-type easel with a huge pad of paper that fas-
tened onto it at the top and could be torn off, sheet by
sheet. There was a rack of holes for his poster paint
pots and a rack for his crayons and chalk and eraser.
It was exactly what he wanted. He nearly cried for joy.
He hugged his mother, and he climbed into his fa-
ther's lap and kissed him despite his prickly beard.

"Okay, okay, da Vinci," his father laughed. "Go
paint us a masterpiece."

Jeremy did. But he was so eager that he couldn't
wait until the paint had completely dried. It smeared
and blurred, brushing against his body as he hurried to
find his dad. So the effect wasn't quite what Jeremy in-
tended.

"Say, that's pretty good," said his father, casting a
judicious eye on the profferred artwork. "What's it
supposed to be?"

208

"Just what you wanted." Jeremy couldn't keep the
disappointment out of his voice.

"I guess you're beyond me, young feller me lad. I
can dig Andy Warhol when he paints tomato soup, but
you're in Picasso's school." His father tousled his hair
affectionately and even swung him up high so that, de-
spite his disappointment, Jeremy was obliged to giggle
and squeal in delight.

Then his father told him to take his painting back
to his room.

"But it's your masterpiece, Daddy. I can fix it . . ."

"No, son. You painted it. You understand it." And
his father went about some Sunday errand or other.

Jeremy did understand his painting. Even with the
smears he could plainly see the car, just like the Ad-
monsens', which Daddy had admired the previous
week. It had been a proper car. If only Daddy had
seen it...

His grandmother came, around lunchtime, and
brought him a set of pastel crayons with special pastel
paper and a simply superior picture book of North
American animals and birds.

"Of course, he'll break every one of the pastels in
the next hour," he heard his grandmother saying to his
mother, "but you said he wants only drawing things."

"I like the book, too, Gramma," Jeremy said po-
litely, but his fingers closed possessively around the
pastels.

Gramma glanced at him and then went right on
talking. "But I think it's about time he found out what
animals really look like instead of those monstrosities
he's forever drawing. His teacher's going to wonder
about his home life when she sees those nightmares."

"Oh, c'mon, Mother. There's nothing abnormal
about Jeremy. I'd far rather he daubed himself all over
with paint than ran around like the Reckons' kids,
slinging mud and sand everywhere."

"If you'd only make Jeremy . . ."

"Mother, you can't make Jeremy do anything. He
slides away from you like . . . like a squeeze of paint."

Jeremy lost interest in the adults. As usual, they ig-
nored his presence, despite the fact that he was the
subject of their conversation. He began to leaf through

209

the book of birds and animals. The pictures weren't
proper. That brown wasn't a bird-brown. And the red
of the robin had too much orange, not enough gray.
He kept his criticism to himself, but by the time he'd
catalogued the anatomical faults in the sketch of the
mustang, he was thoroughly bored with the book. His
animals might look like nightmares, but they were
proper ones for all of that. They worked.

His mother and grandmother were engrossed in dis-
cussing the fixative that would have made the pictures
"permanent." Gramma said she hadn't bought it be-
cause it would be dangerous for him to breathe the
fumes. They continued to ignore him. Which was as
well. He picked up the pastels and began to experiment.
A green horse with pink mane and tail, however ana-
tomically perfect, would arouse considerable contro-
versy.

He didn't break a single one of the precious pastels.
He even blew away the rainbow dust from the tray.
But he didn't let the horse off the pad until after
Gramma and his mother had wandered into the
kitchen for lunch.

"I wish ..."

The horse was lovely.

"I wish I had some ..." Jeremy said.

The horse went cantering around the room, pink tail
streaming out behind him and pink mane flying.

". . . Fixative, Green Horse!" But it didn't work.
Jeremy knew it took more than just wishing to do it
proper.

He watched regretfully as Green Horse pranced too
close to a wall and brushed himself out of existence.

Miss Bradley, his first-grade teacher, evidently didn't
find anything untoward about his drawings, for she
constantly displayed them on the bulletin boards. She
had a habit of pouncing on him when he had just
about finished a drawing so that after all his effort,
he hadn't much chance to see if he'd done it "proper"
after all. Once or twice he managed to reclaim one
from the board and use it, but Miss Bradley created
so much fuss about the missing artwork that he diplo-
matically ceased to repossess his efforts.

On the whole he liked Miss Bradley, but about the
first week in October she developed the distressing
habit of making him draw to order: "class assign-
ments," she called it. Well, that was all right for the
ones who never knew what to draw anyhow, but "as-
signments" just did not suit Jeremy. While part of
him wanted to do hobgoblins, and witches, and pump-
kin moons, the other part obstinately refused.

"I'd really looked forward to your interpretations of
Hallowe'en, Jeremy," Miss Bradley said sadly when
he proffered another pedantic landscape with nothing
but ticky-tacky houses. "This is very beautiful, Jeremy,
but it isn't the assigned project. Now, look at Cynthia's
witch and Mark's hobgoblin. I'm certain you could do
something just as original."

Jeremy dutifully regarded Cynthia's elongated witch
on an outsized broomstick apparently made from 2 x
4s instead of broom reeds, and the hobgoblin Mark
had created by splashing paint on the paper and fold-
ing, thus blotting the wet paint. Neither creation had
any chance of working properly; surely Miss Bradley
could see that. So he was obliged to tell her that his
landscape was original, particularly if she would look
at it properly.

"You're not getting the point, Jeremy," Miss Bradley
said with unaccustomed sternness.

She wasn't either, but Jeremy thought he might
better not say that. So he was the only student in the
class who had no Hallowe'en picture for parents to
admire on Back-to-School Night.

His parents were a bit miffed since they'd heard that
Jeremy's paintings were usually prominently displayed.

"The assignment was Hallowe'en and Jeremy simply
refused to produce something acceptable," Miss Brad-
ley said with a slightly forced smile.

"Perhaps that's just as well," his mother said, a
trifle sourly. "He used to draw the most frightening
nightmares and say he 'saw' them."

"He's got a definite talent. Are either of you or Mr.
North artistically inclined?"

"Not like he is," Mr. North replied, thinking that
if he himself were artistically inclined he would use
211

Miss Bradley as a model. "Probably he's used up all
his Hallowe'en inspiration."

"Probably," Miss Bradley said with a laugh.

Actually Jeremy hadn't. Although he dutifully set
out trick-or-treating, he came home early. His mother
made him sort out his candy, apples, and money for
UNICEF, and permitted him to stay up long past his
regular bedtime to answer the door for other beggars.
But, once safely in his room, he dove for his easel
and drew frenetically, slathering black and blue poster
paint across clean paper, dashing globs of lumines-
cence for horrific accents. The proper ones took off or
crawled obscenely around the room, squeaking and
groaning until he released them into the night air for
such gambols and aerial maneuvers as they were ca-
pable of. Jeremy was impressed. He hung over the
windowsill, cheering them on by moonlight. (Around
three o'clock there was a sudden shower. All the water
solubles melted into the ground.)

For a while after that, Jeremy was not tempted to
approach the easel at all, either in school or at home.
At first. Miss Bradley was sincerely concerned lest she
had inhibited her budding artist by arbitrary assign-
ments. But he was only busy with a chemical garden,
lumps of coal and bluing and ammonia and all that.
Then she got the class involved in making candles out
of plastic milk cartons for Thanksgiving, and Jeremy
entered into the project with such enthusiasm that she
was reassured.

She ought not to have been.

Three-dimensionality and a malleable substance fas-
cinated Jeremy. He went in search of anything re-
motely pliable. He started with butter (his mother had
a fit about a whole pound melted on his furry rug;

he'd left the creature he'd created prancing around his
room, but then the heat came up in the radiators.)
Then he tried mud (which set his mother screaming at
him). She surrendered to the inevitable by supplying
Kirn with Play-Doh. However, now his creations
thwarted him because as soon as the substance out of
which the proper ones had been created hardened, they
lost their mobility. He hadn't minded the ephemeral

quality of his drawings, but he'd begun to count on
the fact that sculpture lasted a while.

Miss Bradley introduced him to plasticine. And
Christmas.

Success with three-dimensional figures, the avail-
ability of plasticine, and the sudden influx of all sorts
of Christmas mail order catalogues spurred Jeremy to
unusual efforts. This time he did not resist the class as-
signment of a centerpiece to deck the Christmas festive
tables. Actually, Jeremy scarcely heard what Miss
Bradley was saying past her opening words.

"Here's a chance for you to create your very own
Santa Claus and reindeer, or a sleigh full of pres-
ents ..."

Dancer, Prancer, Donner, Blitzen, and Dasher and
Comet and Rudolph of the red nose, took form under
his flying fingers. Santa's sack was crammed with full-
color advertisements clipped from mail order wish-
books. Indeed, the sleigh threatened to crumble on its
runners from paper weight. He saved Santa Claus till
the last. And once he had the fat and jolly gentleman
seated in his sleigh, whip in hand, ready to urge his
harnessed team, Jeremy was good and ready to make
them proper.

Only they weren't; they remained obdurately im-
mobile. Disconsolate, Jeremy moped for nearly a
week, examining and re-examining his handiwork for
the inhibiting flaw.

Miss Bradley had been enthusiastically complimen-
tary and the other children sullenly envious of his suc-
cess when the finished group was displayed on a special
table, all red and white, with Ivory Snow snow and little
evergreens in proportion to the size of the figures.
There was even a convenient chimney for the good
Santa to descend. Only Jeremy knew that that was
not his Santa's goal.

In fact Jeremy quite lost interest in the whole Christ-
mas routine. He refused to visit the Santa on tap at the
big shopping center, although his mother suspected
that his heart had been set on the Masterpiece Oil
Painting Set with its enticing assortment of brushes and
every known pigment in life-long-lasting color.

Miss Bradley, too, lost all patience with him and be-

came quite stem with his inattentiveness, to the delight
of his classmates.

As so often happens when people concentrate too
hard on a problem, Jeremy almost missed the solution,
inadvertently provided by the pert Cynthia, now bask-
ing in Miss Bradley's favor.

"He's naked, that's what. He's naked and ugly. Ev-
eryone knows Santa is red and white. And reindeers
aren't gray-yecht. They're brown and soft and have
fuzzy tails."

Jeremy had, of course, meticulously detailed the
clothing on Santa and the harness on the animals, but
they were still plasticine. It hadn't mattered with his
other creations that they were the dull gray-brown of
plasticene because that's how he'd envisaged them,
being products of his imagination. But Santa wasn't,
or so he thought.

To conform to a necessary convention was obviously,
to Jeremy, the requirement that had prevented his
Santa from being a proper one. He fabricated harness
of string for the reindeer. And a new sleigh of balsa
wood with runners of laboriously straightened bobby
pins took some time and looked real tough. A judicious
coat of paint smartened both reindeer and sleigh. How-
ever, the design and manufacture of the red Santa suit
proved far more difficult and occupied every spare
moment of Jeremy's time. He had to do it in the pri-
vacy of his room at home because, when Cynthia
saw him putting harness on the reindeer, she twitted
him so unmercifully that he couldn't work in peace at
school.

He had had little practice with needle and thread,
so he actually had to perfect a new skill in order to
complete his project. Christmas was only a few days
away before he was satisfied with his Santa suit.

He raced to school so he could dress Santa and make
him proper. He was just as startled as Miss Bradley
when he slithered to a stop inside his classroom door,
and found her tying small gifts to the branches of the
class tree. They stared at each other for a long mo-
ment, and then Miss Bradley smiled. She'd been so
hard on poor Jeremy lately.

"You're awfully early, Jeremy. Would you like to

214

help me ... Oh! How adorable!" She spotted the
Santa suit which he hadn't had the presence of mind
to hide from her. "And you did them yourself? Jeremy,
you never cease to amaze me." She took the jacket and
pants and little hat from his unresisting hand, and
examined them carefully. "They are simply beautiful.
Just beautiful. But honestly, Jeremy, your Santa is
lovely just as he is. No need to gild the lily."

"He isn't a proper Santa without a proper Santa
suit."

Miss Bradley looked at him gravely, and then put
her hands on his shoulders, making him look up at
her.

"A proper Santa Claus is the one we have in our
own hearts at this time of year, Jeremy. Not the ones
in the department stores or on the street corners or on
TV. They're just his helpers." You never knew which
of your first-graders still did believe in Santa Claus in
this cynical age. Miss Bradley thought. "A proper Santa
Claus is the spirit of giving and sharing, of good fellow-
ship. Don't let anyone tell you that there isn't a Santa
Claus. The proper Santa Claus belongs to all of us."

Then, pleased with her eloquence and restraint,
she handed him back the Santa suit and patted his
shoulder encouragingly.

Jeremy was thunderstruck. His Santa Claus had only
been made for Jeremy. But poor Miss Bradley's words
rang in his ears. Miss Bradley couldn't know that she
had improperly understood Jeremy's dilemma. Once
again the blight of high-minded interpretation and lady-
like good intentions withered primitive magic.

The little reindeer in their shrinking coats of paint
would have pulled the sleigh only to Jeremy's house so
that Santa could descend only Jeremy's chimney with
the little gifts all bearing Jeremy's name.

There was no one there to tell him that it's proper
for little boys and girls of his age to be selfish and ac-
quisitive, to regard Santa as an exclusive property.

Jeremy took the garments and let Miss Bradley push
him gently toward the table on which his figures were
displayed.

She'd put tinsel about the scene, and glitter, but they
didn't shine or glisten in the dull gray light filtering
215

through the classroom windows. They weren't proper
snow and icicles anyway.

Critically, he saw only string and the silver cake
ornaments instead of harness and sleigh bells. He could
see the ripples now in the unbent bobby pins which
wouldn't ever draw the sleigh smoothly, even over
Ivory Snow snow. Dully, he reached for the figure of
his Santa Claus.

Getting on the clothes, he dented the plasticene a
bit, but it scarcely mattered now. After he'd clasped
Santa's malleable paw around the whip, the toothpick
with a bright, thick, nylon thread attached to the top
with glue, he stood back and stared.

A proper Santa Claus is the spirit of giving and
sharing.

So overwhelming was Jeremy's sense of failure, so
crushing his remorse for making a selfish Santa Claus
instead of the one that belonged to everyone, that he
couldn't imagine ever creating anything properly again.

The Smallest Dragonboy

ALTHOUGH KEEVAN LENGTHENED HIS WALK-

ing stride as far as his legs would stretch, he couldn't
quite keep up with the other candidates. He knew he
would be teased again.

Just as he knew many other things that his foster
mother told him he ought not to know, Keevan knew
that Beterii, the most senior of the boys, set that spank-
ing pace just to embarrass him, the smallest dragonboy.
Keevan would arrive, tail fork-end of the group,
breathless, chest heaving, and maybe get a stem look
from the instructing wing-second.

Dragonriders, even if they were still only hopeful
candidates for the glowing eggs which were hardening
on the hot sands of the Hatching Ground cavern, were
expected to be punctual and prepared. Sloth was not
tolerated by the Weyrleader of Benden Weyr. A good
record was especially important now. It was very near
hatching time, when the baby dragons would crack
their mottled shells, and stagger forth to choose their
lifetime companions. The very thought of that glorious
moment made Keevan's breath catch in his throat.
To be chosen--to be a dragonrider! To sit astride the
neck of a winged beast with jeweled eyes: to be his
friend, in telepathic communion with him for life; to be
his companion in good times and fighting extremes;

to fly effortlessly over the lands of Pem! Or, thrillingly,
between to any point anywhere on the world! Flying
between was done on dragonback or not at all, and it
was dangerous.

Keevan glanced upward, past the black mouths of
the weyr caves in which grown dragons and their chosen

riders lived, toward the Star Stones that crowned the
ridge of the old volcano that was Benden Weyr. On
the height, the blue watch dragon, his rider mounted
on his neck, stretched the great transparent pinions that
carried him on the winds of Pern to fight the evil
Thread that fell at certain times from the skies. The
many-faceted rainbow jewels of his eyes glistened fleet-
ingly in the greeny sun. He folded his great wings to
his back, and the watch pair resumed their statuelike
pose of alertness.

Then the enticing view was obscured as Keevan
passed into the Hatching Ground cavern. The sands
underfoot were hot, even through heavy wher-hide
boots. How the bootmaker had protested having to sew
so small! Keeven was forced to wonder why being
small was reprehensible. People were always calling
him "babe" and shooing him away as being "too small"
or "too young" for this or that. Keevan was constantly
working, twice as hard as any other boy his age, to
prove himself capable. What if his muscles weren't as
big as Beterli's? They were just as hard. And if he
couldn't overpower anyone in a wrestling match, he
could outdistance everyone in a footrace.

"Maybe if you run fast enough," Beterii had jeered
on the occasion when Keevan had been goaded to
boast of his swiftness, "you could catch a dragon.
That's the only way you'll make a dragonrider!"

"You just wait and see, Beterii, you just wait," Kee-
van had replied. He would have liked to wipe the con-
temptuous smile from Beterli's face, but the guy didn't
fight fair even when a wingsecond was watching. "No
one knows what Impresses a dragon!"

"They've got to be able to find you first, babe!"

Yes, being the smallest candidate was not an en-
viable position. It was therefore imperative that Kee-
van Impress a dragon in his first hatching. That would
wipe the smile off every face in the cavern, and accord
him the respect due any dragonrider, even the small-
est one.

Besides, no one knew exactly what Impressed the
baby dragons as they struggled from their shells in
search of their lifetime partners.

"I like to believe that dragons see into a man's

218

heart," Keevan's foster mother, Mende, told him. "If
they find goodness, honesty, a flexible mind, patience,
courage--and you've got that in quantity, dear Keevan
--that's what dragons look for. I've seen many a
well-grown lad left standing on the sands. Hatching
Day, in favor of someone not so strong or tall or hand-
some. And if my memory serves me"--which it
usually did: Mende knew every word of every Harper's
tale worth telling, although Keevan did not interrupt
her to say so--"I don't believe that F'lar, our Weyr-
leader, was all that tall when bronze Mnementh chose
him. And Mnementh was the only bronze dragon of
that hatching."

Dreams of Impressing a bronze were beyond Kee-
van's boldest reflections, although that goal dominated
the thoughts of every other hopeful candidate. Green
dragons were small and fast and more numerous.
There was more prestige to Impressing a blue or brown
than a green. Being practical, Keevan seldom dreamed
as high as a big fighting brown, like Canth, F'nor's fine
fellow, the biggest brown on all Pem. But to fly a
bronze? Bronzes were almost as big as the queen, and
only they took the air when a queen flew at mating
time. A bronze rider could aspire to become Weyr-
leader! Well, Keevan would console himself, brown rid-
ers could aspire to become wingseconds, and that
wasn't bad. He'd even settle for a green dragon: they
were small, but so was he. No matter! He simply had to
Impress a dragon his first time in the Hatching Ground.
Then no one in the Weyr would taunt him anymore
for being so small.

Shells, Keevan thought now, but the sands are
hot!

"Impression time is imminent, candidates," the wing-
second was saying as everyone crowded respectfully
close to him. "See the extent of the striations on this
promising egg." The stretch marks were larger than
yesterday.

Everyone leaned forward and nodded thoughtfully.
That particular egg was the one Beterii had marked
as his own, and no other candidate dared, on pain of
being beaten by Beterii at his first opportunity, to ap-
proach it. The egg was marked by a large yellowish

219

splotch in the shape of a dragon backwinging to land,
talons outstretched to grasp rock. Everyone knew that
bronze eggs bore distinctive markings. And naturally,
Beterii, who'd been presented at eight Impressions al-
ready and was the biggest of the candidates, had
chosen it.

"I'd say that the great opening day is almost upon
us," the wingsecond went on, and then his face assumed
a grave expression. "As we well know, there are only
forty eggs and seventy-two candidates. Some of you
may be disappointed on the great day. That doesn't
necessarily mean you aren't dragonrider material, just
that the dragon for you hasn't been shelled. You'll
have other hatchings, and it's no disgrace to be left
behind an Impression or two. Or more."

Keevan was positive that the wingsecond's eyes
rested on Beterii, who'd been stood off at so many
Impressions already. Keevan tried to squinch down so
the wingsecond wouldn't notice him. Keevan had been
reminded too often that he was eligible to be a candi-
date by one day only. He, of all the hopefuls, was
most likely to be left standing on the great day. One
more reason why he simply had to Impress at his first
hatching.

"Now move about among the eggs," the wingsecond
said. "Touch them. We don't know that it does any
good, but it certainly doesn't do any harm."

Some of the boys laughed nervously, but everyone
immediately began to circulate among the eggs. Be-
terii stepped up officiously to "his" egg, daring anyone
to come near it. Keevan smiled, because he had al-
ready touched it--every inspection day, when the oth-
ers were leaving the Hatching Ground and no one
could see him crouch to stroke it.

Keevan had an egg he concentrated on, too, one
drawn slightly to the far side of the others. The shell
had a soft greenish-blue tinge with a faint creamy
swirl design. The consensus was that this egg contained
a mere green, so Keevan was rarely bothered by rivals.
He was somewhat perturbed then to see Beterii wan-
dering over to him.

"I don't know why you're allowed in this Impression,

220

Keevan. There are enough of us without a babe," Be-
terii said, shaking his head.

"I'm of age." Keevan kept his voice level, telling
himself not to be bothered by mere words.

"Yah!" Beterii made a show of standing in his toe-
tips. "You can't even see over an egg; Hatching Day,
you better get in front or the dragons won't see you
at all. 'Course, you could get run down that way in the
mad scramble. Oh, I forget, you can run fast, can't
you?"

"You'd better make sure a dragon sees you, this
time, Beterii," Keevan replied. "You're almost overage,
aren't you?"

Beterii flushed and took a step forward, hand half-
raised. Keevan stood his ground, but if Beterii ad-
vanced one more step, he would call the wingsecond.
No one fought on the Hatching Ground. Surely Beterii
knew that much.

Fortunately, at that moment, the wingsecond called
the boys together and led them from the Hatching
Ground to start on evening chores. There were "glows"
to be replenished in the main kitchen caverns and
sleeping cubicles, the major hallways, and the queen's
apartment. Firestone sacks had to be filled against
Thread attack, and black rock brought to the kitchen
hearths. The boys fell to their chores, tantalized by the
odors of roasting meat. The population of the Weyr
began to assemble for the evening meal, and the drag-
onriders came in from the Feeding Ground on their
sweep checks.

It was the time of day Keevan liked best: once the
chores were done but before dinner was served, a fel-
low could often get close enough to the dragonriders
to hear their talk. Tonight, Keevan's father, K'last, was
at the main dragonrider table. It puzzled Keevan how
his father, a brown rider and a tall man, could be his
father--because he, Keevan, was so small. It obviously
puzzled K'last, too, when he deigned to notice his small
son: "In a few more Turns, you'll be as tall as I am
--or taller!"

K'last was pouring Benden wine all around the table.
The dragonriders were relaxing. There'd be no Thread
attack for three more days, and they'd be in the mood

221

to tell tall tales, better than Harper yams, about im-
possible maneuvers they'd done a-dragonback. When
Thread attack was closer, their talk would change to
a discussion of tactics of evasion, of going between,
how long to suspend there until the burning but fragile
Thread would freeze and crack and fall harmlessly off
dragon and man. They would dispute the exact moment
to feed firestone to the dragon so he'd have the best
flame ready to sear Thread midair and render it
harmless to ground--and man--below. There was
such a lot to know and understand about being a drag-
onrider that sometimes Keevan was overwhelmed. How
would he ever be able to remember everything he
ought to know at the right moment? He couldn't dare
ask such a question; this would only have given ad-
ditional weight to the notion that he was too young yet
to be a dragonrider.

"Having older candidates makes good sense," L'vel
was saying, as Keevan settled down near the table.
"Why waste four to five years of a dragon's fighting
prime until his rider grows up enough to stand the
rigors?" L'vel had Impressed a blue of Ramoth's first
clutch. Most of the candidates thought L'vel was mar-
velous because he spoke up in front of the older riders,
who awed them. "That was well enough in the Interval
when you didn't need to mount the full Weyr comple-
ment to fight Thread. But not now. Not with more
eligible candidates than ever. Let the babes wait."

"Any boy who is over twelve Turns has the right to
stand in the Hatching Ground," K'last replied, a slight
smile on his face. He never argued or got angry. Kee-
van wished he were more like his father. And oh,
how he wished he were a brown rider! "Only a dragon
--each particular dragon--knows what he wants in
a rider. We certainly can't tell. Time and again the
theorists," K'last's smile deepened as his eyes swept
those at the table, "are surprised by dragon choice.
They never seem to make mistakes, however."

"Now, K'last, just look at the roster this Impression.
Seventy-two boys and only forty eggs. Drop off the
twelve youngest, and there's still a good field for the
hatchlings to choose from. Shells! There are a couple of

222

weyrlings unable to see over a wher egg much less a
dragon! And years before they can ride Thread."

"True enough, but the Weyr is scarcely under fight-
ing strength, and if the youngest Impress, they'll be old
enough to fight when the oldest of our current dragons
go between from senility."

"Half the Weyr-bred lads have already been through
several Impressions," one of the bronze riders said
then. "I'd say drop some of them off this time. Give
the untried a chance."

"There's nothing wrong in presenting a clutch with
as wide a choice as possible," said the Weyrleader,
who had joined the table with Lessa, the Weyrwoman.

"Has there ever been a case," she said, smiling in her
odd way at the riders, "where a hatchling didn't
choose?"

Her suggestion was almost heretical and drew as-
tonished gasps from everyone, including the boys.

F'lar laughed. "You say the most outrageous things,
Lessa."

"Well, has there ever been a case where a dragon
didn't choose?"

"Can't say as I recall one," K'last replied.

"Then we continue in this tradition," Lessa said
firmly, as if that ended the matter.

But it didn't. The argument ranged from one table
to the other all through dinner, with some favoring
a weeding out of the candidates to the most likely,
lopping off those who were very young or who had
had multiple opportunities to Impress. All the candi-
dates were in a swivet, though such a departure from
tradition would be to the advantage of many. As the
evening progressed, more riders were favoring elimi-
nating the youngest and those who'd passed four or
more Impressions unchosen. Keevan felt he could bear
such a dictum only if Beterii were also eliminated. But
this seemed less likely than that Keevan would be
turfed out, since the Weyr's need was for fighting
dragons and riders.

By the time the evening meal was over, no decision
had been reached, although the Weyrleader had prom-
ised to give the matter due consideration.

He might have slept on the problem, but few of the
223

candidates did. Tempers were uncertain in the sleeping
caverns next morning as the boys were routed out of
their beds to carry water and black rock and cover the
"glows." Twice Mende had to call Keevan to order for

clumsiness.

"Whatever is the matter with you, boy?" she de-
manded in exasperation when he tipped blackrock
short of the bin and sooted up the hearth.

"They're going to keep me from this Impression."

"What?" Mende stared at him. "Who?"

"You heard them talking at dinner last night. They're
going to turf the babes from the hatching."

Mende regarded him a moment longer before touch-
ing his arm gently. "There's lots of talk around a sup-
per table, Keevan. And it cools as soon as the supper.
I've heard the same nonsense before every hatching,

but nothing is ever changed."

"There's always a first time," Keevan answered,

copying one of her own phrases.

"That'll be enough of that, Keevan. Finish your
job. If the clutch does hatch today, we'll need full rock
bins for the feast, and you won't be around to do the
filling. All my fosterlings make dragonriders."

"The first time?" Keevan was bold enough to ask as

he scooted off with the rockbarrow.

Perhaps, Keevan thought later, if he hadn't been on
that chore just when Beterii was also fetching black
rock, things might have turned out differently. But he
had dutifully trundled the barrow to the outdoor
bunker for another load just as Beterii arrived on a

similar errand.

"Heard the news, babe?" Beterii asked. He was
grinning from ear to ear, and he put an unnecessary
emphasis on the final insulting word.

"The eggs are cracking?" Keevan all but dropped
the loaded shovel. Several anxieties flicked through his
mind then: he was black with rock dust--would he
have time to wash before donning the white tunic of
candidacy? And if the eggs were hatching, why hadn't
the candidates been recalled by the wingsecond?

"Naw! Guess again!" Beterii was much too pleased

with himself.

With a sinking heart, Keevan knew what the news

224

must be, and he could only stare with intense desola-
tion at the older boy.
"C'mon! Guess, babe!"

"I've no time for guessing games," Keevan managed
to say with indifference. He began to shovel black rock
into the barrow as fast as he could.

"I said, guess." Beterii grabbed the shovel.
"And I said I have no time for guessing games."
Beterii wrenched the shovel from Keevan's hands.

"Guess!"

"I'll have that shovel back, Beterii." Keevan straight-
ened up, but he didn't come to Beterii's bulky shoulder.
From somewhere, other boys appeared, some with
barrows, some mysteriously alerted to the prospect of
a confrontation among their numbers.

"Babes don't give orders to candidates around here,
babe!"

Someone sniggered and Keevan, incredulous, knew
that he must've been dropped from the candidacy.

He yanked the shovel from Beterii's loosened grasp.
Snarling, the older boy tried to regain possession, but
Keevan clung with all his strength to the handle,
dragged back and forth as the stronger boy jerked the
shovel about.

With a sudden, unexpected movement, Beterii
rammed the handle into Keevan's chest, knocking
him over the barrow handles. Keevan felt a sharp,
painful jab behind his left ear, an unbearable pain in
his left shin, and then a painless nothingness.

Mende's angry voice roused him, and startled, he
tried to throw back the covers, thinking he'd over-
slept. But he couldn't move, so firmly was he tucked
into his bed. And then the constriction of a bandage on
his head and the dull sickishness in his leg brought back
recent occurrences.

"Hatching?" he cried.

"No, lovey," Mende said in a kind voice. Her hand
was cool and gentle on his forehead. "Though there's
some as won't be at any hatching again." Her voice
took on a stern edge.

Keevan looked beyond her to see the Weyrwoman,
who was frowning with irritation.

22?

"Keevan, will you tell me what occurred at the
black-rock bunker?" asked Lessa in an even voice.

He remembered BeterU now and the quarrel over
the shovel and . . . what had Mende said about some
not being at any hatching? Much as he hated BeterU,
he couldn't bring himself to tattle on BeterU and force
him out of candidacy.

"Come, lad," and a note of impatience crept into
the Weyrwoman's voice. "I merely want to know what
happened from you, too. Mende said she sent you for
black rock. BeterU--and every WeyrUng in the
cavern--seems to have been on the same errand. What
happened?"

"BeterU took my shovel. I hadn't finished with it."

"There's more than one shovel. What did he say to
you?"

"He'd heard the news."

"What news?" The Weyrwoman was suddenly
amused.

"That... that... there'd been changes."

"Is that what he said?"

"Not exactly"

"What did he say? C'mon, lad, I've heard from
everyone else, you know."

"He said for me to guess the news."

"And you fell for that old gag?" The Weyrwoman's
irritation returned.

"Consider all the talk last night at supper, Lessa,"
Mende said. "Of course the boy would think he'd been
eUminated."

"In effect, he is, with a broken skull and leg." Lessa
touched his arm in a rare gesture of sympathy. "Be
that as it may, Keevan, you'll have other Impressions.
BeterU wiU not. There are certain rules that must be
observed by all candidates, and his conduct proves him
unacceptable to the Weyr."

She smiled at Mende and then left.

"I'm still a candidate?" Keevan asked urgently.

"Well, you are and you aren't, lovey," his foster
mother said. "Is the numbweed working?" she asked,
and when he nodded, she said, "You just rest. I'll bring
you some nice broth."

At any other time in his Ufe, Keevan would have
226

relished such cosseting, but now he just lay there wor-
rying. BeterU had been dismissed. Would the others
think it was his fault? But everyone was there! BeterU
provoked that fight. His worry increased, because al-
though he heard excited comings and goings in the
passageway, no one tweaked back the curtain across
the sleeping alcove he shared with five other boys.
Surely one of them would have to come in sometime.
No, they were all avoiding him. And something else
was wrong. Only he didn't know what.

Mende returned with broth and beachberry bread.
"Why doesn't anyone come see me, Mende? I haven't
done anything wrong, have I? I didn't ask to have
BeterU turfed out."

Mende soothed him, saying everyone was busy with
noontime chores and no one was angry with him. They
were giving him a chance to rest in quiet. The
numbweed made him drowsy, and her words were
fair enough. He permitted his fears to dissipate. Until
he heard a hum. Actually, he felt it first, in the broken
shin bone and his sore head. The hum began to grow.
Two things registered suddenly in Keevan's groggy
mind: the only white candidate's robe still on the
pegs in the chamber was his; and the dragons hummed
when a clutch was being laid or being hatched. Impres-
sion! And he was flat abed.

Bitter, bitter disappointment turned the warm broth
sour in his belly. Even the small voice telling him that
he'd have other opportunities failed to alleviate his
crushing depression. This was the Impression that mat-
tered! This was his chance to show everyone, from
Mende to K'last to L'vel and even the Weyrieader that
he, Keevan, was worthy of being a dragonrider.

He twisted in bed, fighting against the tears that
threatened to choke him. Dragonmen don't cry! Drag-
onmen learn to live with pain.

Pain? The leg didn't actually pain him as he rolled
about on his bedding. His head felt sort of stiff from
the tightness of the bandage. He sat up, an effort in
itself since the numbweed made exertion difficult. He
touched the splinted leg; the knee was unhampered.
He had no feeling in his bone, really. He swung him-
self carefully to the side of his bed and stood slowly.

227

The room wanted to swim about him. He closed his
eyes, which made the dizziness worse, and he had to
clutch the wall.

Gingerly, he took a step. The broken leg dragged. It
hurt in spite of the numbweed, but what was pain to a
dragonman?

No one had said he couldn't go to the Impression.
"You are and you aren't," were Mende's exact words.

Clinging to the wall, he jerked off his bedshirt.
Stretching his arm to the utmost, he jerked his white
candidate's tunic from the peg. Jamming first one arm
and then the other into the holes, he pulled it over his
head. Too bad about the belt. He couldn't wait. He
hobbled to the door, hung on to the curtain to steady
himself. The weight on his leg was unwieldy. He
wouldn't get very far without something to lean on.
Down by the bathing pool was one of the long crook-
necked poles used to retrieve clothes from the hot wash-
ing troughs. But it was down there, and he was on the
level above. And there was no one nearby to come to
his aid: everyone would be in the Hatching Ground
right now, eagerly waiting for the first egg to crack.

The humming increased in volume and tempo, an
urgency to which Keevan responded, knowing that his
time was all too limited if he was to join the ranks of
the hopeful boys standing around the cracking eggs.
But if he hurried down the ramp, he'd fall flat on his
face.

He could, of course, go flat on his rear end, the way
crawling children did. He sat down, sending a jarring
stab of pain through his leg and up to the wound on
the back of his head. Gritting his teeth and blinking
away tears, Keevan scrabbled down the ramp. He had
to wait a moment at the bottom to catch his breath.
He got to one knee, the injured leg straight out in front
of him. Somehow, he managed to push himself erect,
though the room seemed about to tip over his ears. It
wasn't far to the crooked stick, but it seemed an age
before he had it in his hand.
Then the humming stopped!
Keevan cried out and began to hobble frantically
across the cavern, out to the bowl of the Weyr. Never
had the distance between living caverns and the Hatch-
228

ing Ground seemed so great. Never had the Weyr been
so breathlessly silent. It was as if the multitude of peo-
ple and dragons watching the hatching held every
breath in suspense. Not even the wind muttered down
the steep sides of the bowl. The only sounds to break
the stillness were Keevan's ragged gasps and the
thump-thud of his stick on the hard-packed ground.
Sometimes he had to hop twice on his good leg to
maintain his balance. Twice he fell into the sand and
had to pull himself up on the stick, his white tunic no
longer spotless. Once he jarred himself so badly he
couldn't get up immediately.

Then he heard the first exhalation of the crowd, the
oohs, the muted cheer, the susurrus of excited whispers.
An egg had cracked, and the dragon had chosen his
rider. Desperation increased Keevan's hobble. Would
he never reach the arching mouth of the Hatching
Ground?

Another cheer and an excited spate of applause
spurred Keevan to greater effort. If he didn't get there
in moments, there'd be no unpaired hatchling left.
Then he was actually staggering into the Hatchling
Ground, the sands hot on his bare feet.

No one noticed his entrance or his halting progress.
And Keevan could see nothing but the backs of the
white-robed candidates, seventy of them ringing the
area around the eggs. Then one side would surge for-
ward or back and there'd be a cheer. Another dragon
had been Impressed. Suddenly a large gap appeared in
the white human wall, and Keevan had his first sight
of the eggs. There didn't seem to be any left uncracked,
and he could see the lucky boys standing beside
wobble-legged dragons. He could hear the unmistak-
able plaintive crooning of hatchlings and their squawks
of protest as they'd fall awkwardly in the sand.

Suddenly he wished that he hadn't left his bed, that
he'd stayed away from the Hatching Ground. Now
everyone would see his ignominious failure. So he
scrambled as desperately to reach the shadowy walls of
the Hatching Ground as he had struggled to cross the
bowl. He mustn't be seen.

He didn't notice, therefore, that the shifting group
of boys remaining had begun to drift in his direction.
229

The hard pace he had set himself and his cruel disap-
pointment took their double toll of Keevan. He tripped
and collapsed sobbing to the warm sands. He didn't
see the consternation in the watching Weyrfolk above
the Hatching Ground, nor did he hear the excited whis-
pers of speculation. He didn't know that the Weyr-
leader and Weyrwoman had dropped to the arena and
were making their way toward the knot of boys slowly
moving in the direction of the entrance.

"Never seen anything like it," the Weyrleader was
saying. "Only thirty-nine riders chosen. And the
bronze trying to leave the Hatching Ground without
making Impression."

"A case in point of what I said last night," the
Weyrwoman replied, "where a hatchling makes no
choice because the right boy isn't there."

"There's only Beterii and K'last's young one missing.
And there's a full wing of likely boys to choose
from. . ."

"None acceptable, apparently. Where is the creature
going? He's not heading for the entrance after all.
Oh, what have we there, in the shadows?"

Keevan heard with dismay the sound of voices near-
ing him. He tried to burrow into the sand. The mere
thought of how he would be teased and taunted now
was unbearable.

Don't worry! Please don't worry! The thought was
urgent, but not his own.

Someone kicked sand over Keevan and butted
roughly against him.

"Go away. Leave me alone!" he cried.

Why? was the injured-sounding question inserted
into his mind. There was no voice, no tone, but the
question was there, perfectly clear, in his head.

Incredulous, Keevan lifted his head and stared into
the glowing jeweled eyes of a small bronze dragon. His
wings were wet, the tips drooping in the sand. And
he sagged in the middle on his unsteady legs, al-
though he was making a great effort to keep erect.

Keevan dragged himself to his knees, oblivious of
the pain in his leg. He wasn't even aware that he was
ringed by the boys passed over, while thirty-one pairs
of resentful eyes watched him Impress the dragon.

The Weynnen looked on, amused, and surprised at
the draconic choice, which could not be forced. Could
not be questioned. Could not be changed.

Why? asked the dragon again. Don't you like me?
His eyes whirled with anxiety, and his tone was so
piteous that Keevan staggered forward and threw his
arms around the dragon's neck, stroking his eye ridges,
patting the damp, soft hide, opening the fragile-looking
wings to dry them, and wordlessly assuring the hatch-
ling over and over again that he was the most perfect,
most beautiful, most beloved dragon in the Weyr, in
all the Weyrs of Pem.

"What's his name, K'van?" asked Lessa, smiling
warmly at the new dragonrider. K'van stared up at her
for a long moment. Lessa would know as soon as he
did. Lessa was the only person who could "receive"
from all dragons, not only her own Ramoth. Then he
gave her a radiant smile, recognizing the traditional
shortening of his name that raised him forever to the
rank of dragonrider.

My name is Heth, the dragon thought mildly, then
hiccuped in sudden urgency. I'm hungry.

"Dragons are bom hungry," said Lessa, laughing.
"F'lar, give the boy a hand. He can barely manage his
own legs, much less a dragon's."

K'van remembered his stick and drew himself up.
"We'll be Just fine, thank you."

"You may be the smallest dragonrider ever, young
K'van," Flar said, "but you're one of the bravest!"

And Heth agreed! Pride and joy so leaped in both
chests that K'van wondered if his heart would burst
right out of his body. He looped an arm around Heth's
neck and the pair, the smallest dragonboy and the
hatchling who wouldn't choose anybody else, walked
out of the Hatching Ground together forever.

Apple

The late Hans Stefan Santesson approached me at
a party to see if I could contribute to his proposed
Walker Anthology on crime prevention in the future.
I had nothing completed but I'd just finished "A
Womanly Talent," in which parapsychics got made
respectable. I'd proposed that there'd be such talents
as 'finders' employed by law enforcement officers to
locate lost persons and objects. Happily, that back'
ground generated this story, almost in one sitting . . .
rewarding me in many ways. Authors dream yearn'
ingly of stories that'll write themselves. It happens
infrequently and is regarded, at least by me, as a minor
miracle--the good apple in the barrel of imagination,
Juicy, tart, memorable.

THE THEFT WAS THE LEAD MORNING 'CAST

and ruined Daffyd op Owen's appetite. As he listened
to the description of the priceless sable coat, the
sapphire necklace, the couture-model gown, and the
jewel-strap slippers, he felt as if he were congealing
in his chair as his breakfast cooled and hardened on
the plate. He waited, numbed, for the commentator to
make the obvious conclusion: a conclusion which would
destroy all that the North American Parapsychic Cen-
ter had achieved so slowly, so delicately. For the only
way in which such valuable items could have been re-
moved from a store dummy in a scanned, warded, very
public display window in the five-minute period be-
tween the fixed TV frames was by kinetic energy.

"The police have several leads and expect to have a
solution by evening. Commissioner Frank Gillings is
taking charge of the investigation.

" 'I keep my contractual obligations to the City,'
Gillings is reported to have told the press early this
morning as he personally supervised the examination
of the display window at Coles, Michaels' and Chamy
Department Store. 'I have reduced street and consen-
sual crimes and contained riot activity. Jerhattan is a
safe place for the law-abiding. Unsafe for law-
breakers.' "

The back-shot of Gillings' stem face was sufficient
to break op Owen's stasis. He rose and strode toward
the corn-unit just as it beeped.

"Dafiyd, you heard that 'cast?" The long, unusually
grim face of Lester Welch appeared on the screen.
"Goddammit, they promised no premature announce-

ment. Mediamen!" His expression boded ill for the first
unwary reporter to approach him. Over Les's shoul-
der, op Owen could see the equally savage face of
Charlie Moorfield, duty officer of the control room of
the Center.

"How long have you known about the theft?" Op
Owen couldn't quite keep the reprimand from his voice.
Les had a habit of trying to spare his superior, par-
ticularly these days when he knew op Owen had been
spreading himself very thin in the intensive public edu-
cational campaign.

"Ted Lewis snuck in a cautious advice as soon as
Headquarters scanned the disappearance. He also can't
'find' a thing. And, Dave, there wasn't a wrinkle or a
peak between 7:03 and 7:08 on any graph that
shouldn't be there, with every single Talent accounted
for!"

"That's right, boss," Charlie added. "Not a single
Incident to account for the kinetic 'lift' needed for the
heist."

"Gillings is on his way here," said Les, screwing his
face up with indignation.

"Why?" Daffyd op Owen exploded. "Didn't Ted
clear us?"

"Christ, yes, but Gillings has been at Coles and his
initial investigation proves conclusively to him that
one of our people is a larcenist. One of our women,
to be precise, with a secret yen for sable, silk, and
sapphires."

Daffyd forced himself to nullify the boiling anger he
felt. He could not afford to cloud reason with emo-
tion. Not with so much at stake. Not with the Bill
which would provide legal protection for Talents only
two weeks away from passing.

"You'll never believe me, will you, Dave," Les said,
"that the Talented will always be suspect?"

"Gillings has never caviled at the use of Talents,
Lester."

"He'd be a goddamned fool if he did." Lester's eyes
sparkled angrily. He jabbed at his chest. "We've
kept street and consensual crime low. Talent did his
job for him. And now he's out to nail us. With pub-
licity like this, we'll never get that Bill through. Christ,

234

what luck! Two bloody weeks away from protection."

"If there's no Incident on the graphs, Les, even Gill-
ings must admit to our innocence."

Welch rolled his eyes heavenward. "How can you
be so naive, Dave? No matter what our remotes prove,
that heist was done by a Talent."

"Not one of ours." Daffyd op Owen could be dog-
matic, too.

"Great. Prove it to Gillings. He's on his way here
now and he's out to get us. We've all but ruined his
spotless record of enforcement and protection. That hits
his credit, monetary and personal." Lester paused for
a quick breath. "I told you that public education pro-
gram would cause more trouble than it's worth. Let
me cancel the morning 'cast."

"No." Daffyd closed his eyes wearily. He didn't need
to resume that battle with Les now. In spite of this
disastrous development, he was convinced of the neces-
sity of the campaign. The general public must leam
that they had nothing to fear from those gifted with a
parapsychic Talent. The series of public information
programs, so carefully planned, served several vital
purposes: to show how the many facets of Talent
served the community's best interests; to identify those
peculiar traits that indicated the possession of a Talent;

and, most important, to gain public support for the
Bill in the Senate which would give Talents professional
immunity in the exercise of then- various duties.

"I haven't a vestige of Talent, Dave," Les went on
urgently, "but I don't need it to guess some dissident
in the common mass of have-nots listened to every word
of those 'casts and put what you should never have
aired to good use . . . for him. And don't comfort me
with how many happy clods have obediently tripped
up to the Clinic to have they minor Talents identified.
One renegade apple's all you need to sour the barrel!"

"Switch the 'cast to the standard recruiting tape. To
pull the whole series would be worse. I'm coming right
over."

Daffyd op Owen looked down at the blank screen
for a long moment, gathering strength. It was no pre-
cog that this would be a very difficult day. Strange, he
mused, that no pre-cog had foreseen this. No. That
23?

very omission indicated a wild Talent, acting on the
spur of impulse. What was it Les had said? 'The com-
mon mass of have-nots'? Even with the basic dignities
of food, shelter, clothing, and education guaranteed,
the appetite of the have-not was continually whetted
by the abundance that was not his. In this case, hers.
Daffyd op Owen groaned. If only such a Talent had
been moved to come to the Center where she could be
trained and used. (Where had their so carefully worded
programming slipped up?) She could have had the furs,
the jewels, the dresses on overt purchase . . . and
enjoyed them openly. The Center was well enough
endowed to satisfy any material yearning of its mem-
bers. Surely Gillings would admit that.

Op Owen took a deep breath and exhaled regret
and supposition. He must keep his mind clear, his
sensitivities honed for any nuance that would point a
direction toward success.

As he left his shielded quarters at the back of the
Center's extensive grounds, he was instantly aware of
tension in the atmosphere. Most Talented persons pre-
ferred to live in the Center, in the specially shielded
buildings that reduced the "noise" of constant psychic
agitation. The Center perferred to have them here, as
much to protect as to help their members. Talent was
a double-edged sword; it could excise evil but it neatly
divided its wielder from his fellow man. That was why
these broadcasts were so vital. To prove to the general
public that the psychically gifted were by no means
supermen, able to pierce minds, play ball with massive
weights, or rearrange the world to suit themselves. The
"Talented" person who could predict events might be
limited to Incidents involving fire, or water. He might
have an affinity for metals or a kinetic skill enabling
him to assemble the components of a microscopic gyro,
to be used in space exploration. He might be able to
"find" things by studying a replica, or people by hold-
ing a possession of the missing person. He might be
able to receive thoughts sent from another sensitive or
those around him. Or he might be able to broadcast
only. A true telepath, sender and receiver--Daffyd op
Owen was only one of ten throughout the world--
was still rare. Research had indicated there were more

236

people with the ability than would admit it. There
were, however, definite limitations to most Talents.

The Parapsychic had been raised, in Daffyd's life-
time, to the level of a science with the development of
ultra-sensitive electroencephalographs which could re-
cord and identify the type of "Talent" by the minute
electrical impulses generated in the cortex during the
application of psychic powers. Daffyd op Owen some-
times thought the word "power" was the villain in per-
petuating the public misconceptions. Power means
"possession of control" but such synonyms as "domina-
tion", "sway," "command" lept readily to the average
mind and distorted the true definition.

Daffyd op Owen was roused from his thoughts by
the heavy beat of a copter. He turned onto the path
leading directly to the main administration building
and had a clear view of the Commissioner's marked
copter landing on the flight roof, to the left of the con-
trol tower with its forest of antennal decorations.

Immediately he perceived a reaction of surprise, in-
dignation, and anxiety. Surely every Talent who'd heard
the news on the morning 'cast and realized its signifi-
cance could not be surprised by Gillings' arrival. Op
Owen quickened his pace.

Orley's loose! The thought was as loud as a shout.

People paused, turned unerringly toward the long
low building of the Clinic where applicants were tested
for sensitivity and trained to understand and use what
Talent they possessed; and where the Center conducted
its basic research in psionics.

A tall, heavy figure flung itself from the Clinic's
broad entrance and charged down the lawn, in a direct
line to the tower. The man leaped the ornamental
garden, plunged through the hedges, swung over the
hood of a parked lawn-truck, straight-armed the over-
hanging branches of trees, brushed aside several men
who tried to stop him.

"Reassure Orley! Project reassurance!" the bullhorn
from the tower advised. "Project reassurance!"

Get those cops in my office! Daffyd projected on his
own as he began to run toward the building. He hoped
that Charlie Moorfield or Lester had already done so.
Orley didn't look as if anything short of a tranquilizer

237

bullet would stop him. Who had been dim-witted
enough to let the telempath out of his shielded room
at a time like this? The moron was the most sensitive
barometer to emotion Daffyd had ever encountered
and he was physically dangerous if aroused. By the
speed of that berserker-charge, he had soaked up
enough fear/anxiety/anger to dismember the objects
he was homing in on.

The only sounds now in the grounds were those of
op Owen's shoes hitting the permaplast of the walk and
the thud-thud of Orley's progress on the thick lawn.
One advantage of being Talented is efficient communi-
cation and total comprehension of terse orders. But the
wave of serenity/reassurance was not penetrating Or-
ley's blind fury; the openness dissipated the mass
effect.

Three men walked purposefully out of the adminis-
tration building and down the broad apron of steps.
Each carried slim-barreled hand weapons. The man on
the left raised and aimed his at the audibly panting,
fast-approaching moron. The shot took Orley in the
right arm but did not cause him to falter. Instantly the
second man aimed and fired. Orley lost stride for two
paces from the leg shot but recovered incredibly. The
third man--op Owen recognized Charlie Moorfield
--waited calmly as Orley rapidly closed the interven-
ing distance. In a few more steps Orley would crash
into him. Charlie was swinging out of the way, his gun
slightly raised for a chest shot, when the moron
staggered and, with a horrible groan, fell to his knees.
He tried to rise, one clenched fist straining toward the
building.

Instantly Charlie moved to prevent Orley from
gouging his face on the course-textured permaplast.

"He took two double-strength doses, Dave," Moor-
field exclaimed with some awe as he cradled the
moron's head in his arms.

"He would. How'n'ell did he get such an exposure?"

Charlie made a grimace. "Sally was feeding him on
the terrace. She hadn't heard the 'cast. Said she was
concentrating on keeping him clean and didn't 'read'
his growing restlessness as more than response to her
until he burst wide open."

238

"Too much to hope that our unexpected guests didn't
see this?"

Charlie gave a sour grin. "They caused it, boss.
Stood there on the roof, giving Les a hard time, broad-
casting basic hate and distrust. You should've seen the
dial on the psychic atmosphere gauge. No wonder Or-
ley responded." Charlie's face softened as he glanced
down at the unconscious man. "Poor damned soul.
Where is that med-team? I 'called' them when we got
outside."

Daffyd glanced up at the broad third floor windows
that marked his office. Six men stared back. He put an
instant damper on his thoughts and emotions, and
mounted the steps.

The visitors were still at the window, watching the
med-team as they lifted the huge limp body onto the
stretcher.

"Orley acts as a human barometer, gentlemen, re-
acting instantly to the emotional aura around him,"
Les was saying in his driest, down-eastest tone. To op
Owen's wide-open mind, he emanated a raging anger
that almost masked the aura projected by the visitors.
"He has an intelligence factor of less than fifty on the
New Scale which makes him uneducable. He is, how-
ever, invaluable in helping identify the dominating
emotion in seriously disturbed mental and hallucino-
genic patients which could overcome a rational tele-
path."

Police Commissioner Frank Gillings was the prime
source of the fury which had set Harold Orley off. Op
Owen felt sorry for Orley, having to bear such anger,
and sorrier for himself and his optimistic hopes. He
was momentarily at a loss to explain such a violent
reaction from Gillings, even granting the validity of
Lester Welch's assumption that Gillings was losing face,
financial and personal, on account of this affair.

He tried a "push" at Gillings' mind to discover the
covert reasons and found the man had a tight natural
shield, not uncommon for a person in high position,
privy to sensitive facts. The burly Commissioner
gave every outward appearance of being completely at
ease, as if this were no more than a routine visit, and

239

not one hint of his surface thoughts leaked. Deep-set
eyes, barely visible under heavy brows, above fleshy
cheeks in a swarthy face missed nothing, flicking from
Daffyd to Lester and back.

Op Owen nodded to Ted Lewis, the top police
"finder" who had accompanied the official group. He
stood a little to one side of the others. Of all the visi-
tors, his mind was wide open. Foremost was the
thought that he hoped Daffyd would read him, so that
he could pass the warning that Gillings considered Or-
ley's exhibition another indication that Talents could
not control or discipline their own members.

"Good morning. Commissioner. I regret such circum-
stances bring you on your first visit to the Center. This
morning's newscast has made us all extremely anxious
to clear our profession."

Gillings' perfunctory smile did not acknowledge the
tacit explanation of Orley's behavior.

"I'll come to the point, then, Owen. We have con-
clusively ascertained that there was no break in store
security measures when the theft occurred. The 'lectric
wards and spy-scanner were not tampered with nor
was there any evidence of breaking or entering. There
is only one method in which sable, necklace, dress, and
shoes could have been taken from that window in the
five minutes between TV scans.

"We regret exceedingly that the evidence points to
a person with psychic talents. We must insist that the
larcenist be surrendered to us immediately and the
merchandise returned to Mr. Grey, the repesentative
from Coles." He indicated the portly man in a con-
servative but expensive gray fitted.

Op Owen nodded and looked expectantly toward
Ted Lewis.

"Lewis can't 'find' a trace anywhere so it's obvious
the items are being shielded." A suggestion of impa-
tience crept into Gillings' bass voice. "These grounds
are shielded."

"The stolen goods are not here. Commissioner. If
they were, they would have been found by a member
the instant the broadcast was heard."

Gillings' eyes snapped and his Ups thinned with ob-
stinacy.

240

"I've told you I can read on these grounds, Com-
missioner," Ted Lewis said with understandable indig-
nation. "The stolen..."

A wave of the Commissioner's hand cut off the rest
of Lewis's statement. Op Owen fought anger at the in-
sult.

"You're a damned fool, Gillings," said Welch, not
bothering to control his rage, "if you think we'd shelter
a larcenist at this time."

"Ah yes, that Bill pending Senate approval," Gillings
said with an unpleasant smile.

Daffyd found it hard to nullify resentment at the
smug satisfaction and new antagonism which Gillings
was generating.

"Yes, that Bill, Commissioner," op Owen repeated,
"which will protect any Talent registered with a para-
psychic center." Op Owen did not miss the sparkle of
Gillings' deep-set eyes at the deliberate emphasis. "If
you'll step this way, gentlemen, to our remote-graph
control system, I believe that we can prove, to your
absolute satisfaction, that no registered Talent is re-
sponsible. You haven't been here before. Commis-
sioner, so you are not familiar with our method of
recording incidents in which psychic powers are used.

"Power, by the way, means 'possession of control',
personal as well as psychic, which is what this Center
teaches each and every member. Here we are. Charles
Moorfield is the duty officer and was in charge at the
time of the robbery. If you will observe the graphs,
you'll notice that the period--between 7:03 and 7:08
was the time given by the 'cast--has not yet wound
out of sight on the storage drums."

Gillings was not looking at the graphs. He was star-
ing at Charlie.

"Next time, aim at the chest first, mister."
"Sorry I stopped him at all ... mister," replied
Charlie, with such deliberate malice that Gillings col-
ored and stepped toward him.

Op Owen quickly intervened. "You dislike, distrust,
and hate us, Commissioner," he said, keeping his own
voice neutral. "You and your staff have prejudged us
guilty, though you are at this moment surrounded by
incontrovertible evidence of our collective innocence.

You arrived here, emanating disruptive emotions--
no, I'm not reading your minds, gentlemen (Daffyd
had all Gillings' attention with that phrase). That isn't
necessary. You're triggering responses in the most con-
trolled of us--not to mention that poor witless tel-
empath we had to tranquilize. And, unless you put a
lid on your unwarranted hatred and fears, I will have
no compunction about pumping you all full of tranks,
too!"

"That's coming on mighty strong for a man in your
position, Owen," Gillings said in a tight hard voice,
his body visibly tense now.

"You're the one that's coming on strong, Gillings.
Look at that dial behind you." Gillings did not want
to turn, particularly not at op Owen's command, but
there is a quality of righteous anger that compels, obe-
dience. "That registers--as Harold Orley does--the
psychic intensity of the atmosphere. The mind gives on
electrical impulses, Gillings, surely you have to admit
that. Law enforcement agencies used that premise for
lie detection. Our instrumentation makes those early
registers as archaic as spaceships make oxcarts. We
have ultra-delicate equipment which can measure the
minutest electrical impulses of varying frequencies
and duration. And this p.a. dial registers a dangerous
high right now. Surely your eyes must accept scientific
evidence.

"Those rows of panels there record the psychic
activity of each and every member registered with this
Center. See, most of them register agitation right now.
These red divisions indicate a sixty-minute time span.
Each of those drums exposes the graph as of the time
of that theft. Notice the difference. Not one graph
shows the kinetic activity required of a "lifter' to
achieve such a theft. But every one shows a reaction
to your presence.

"There is no way in which a registered Talent can
avoid these graphs. Charlie, were any kinetics out of
touch at the time of the theft?"

Charlie, his eyes locked on Gillings, shook his head
slowly.

"There has never been so much as a civil misde-
meanor by any of our people. No breach of confidence,

242

nor integrity. No crime could be shielded from fellow
Talents.

"And can you rationally believe that we would jeop-
ardize years and years of struggle to become accepted
as reliable citizens of indisputable integrity for the sake
of a fur coat and a string of baubles? When there are
funds available to any Talent who might want to own

such fripperies?" Op Owen's scorn made the Coles
man wince.

"Now get out of here, Gillings. Discipline your emo-
tions and revise your snap conclusion. Then call
through normal channels and request our cooperation.
Because, believe me, we are far more determined--
and better equipped--to discover the real criminal
than you could ever ever be, no matter what your per-
sonal stake in assigning guilt might conceivably be."

Op Owen watched for a reaction to that remark, but
Gillings, his lips thin and white with anger, did not be-
tray himself. He gestured jerkily toward the one man
in police blues.

"Do not serve that warrant now, Gillings!" op Owen
said in a very soft voice. He watched the frantic ac-
tivity of the needle on the p.a. dial.

"Go. Now. Call. Because if you cannot contain your
feelings, Commissioner, you had better maintain your
distance."

It was then that Gillings became aware of the pal-
pable presence of those assembled in the corridor. A
wide aisle had been left free, an aisle that led only to
the open elevator. No one spoke or moved or coughed.
The force exerted was not audible or physical. It was,

however, undeniably unanimous. It prevailed in forty-
four seconds.

"My firm will wish to know what steps are being
taken," the Coles man said in a squeaky voice as he
began to walk, with erratic but ever quickening steps,
toward the elevator.

Gillings' three subordinates were not so independent
but there was no doubt of their relief as Gillings

turned and walked with precise, unhurried strides to
the waiting car.

No one moved until the thwapping rumble of the
243

copter was no longer audible. Then they turned for
assignments from their director.

City Manager Julian Pennstrak, with a metropolis
of some four millions to supervise, had a habit of
checking up personally on any disruption to the
smooth operation of his city. He arrived as the last of
the organized search parties left the Center.

"I'd give my left kidney and a million credits to
have enough Talent to judge a man accurately, Dave,"
he said as he crossed the room. He knew better than
to shake hands unless a Talented offered but it was
obvious to Daffyd, who liked Pennstrak, that the man
wanted somehow to convey his personal distress over
this incident. He stood for a moment by the chair, his
handsome face without a trace of his famous genial
smile. "I'd've sworn Frank Gillings was pro Talent,"
he said, combing his fingers through his thick, wavy
black hair, another indication of his anxiety. "He cer-
tainly has used your people to their fullest capabilities
since he became L E and P Commissioner."

Lester Welch snorted, looking up from the map he
was annotating with search patterns. "A man'll use
any tool that works . . . until it scratches him, that is."

"But you could prove that no registered Talent was
responsible for that theft."

" 'A man convinced against his will, is of the same
opinion still," Lester chanted.

"Les!" Op Owen didn't need our sour cynicism from
any quarter, even one dedicated to Talent. "No regis-
tered Talent was responsible."

Pennstrak brightened. "You did persuade Gillings
that it's the work of an undiscovered Talent?"

Welch made a rude noise. "He'll be persuaded
when we produce, both missing person and missing
merchandise. Nothing else is going to satisfy either
Gillings or Coles."

"True," Pennstrak agreed, frowning thoughtfully.
"Nor the vacillating members of my own Council. Oh,
I know, it's a flash reaction but the timing is so god-
damned lousy, Dave. Your campaign bore down heavy
on the integrity and good citizenship of the Talented."

244

"It's a deliberate smear job--" Welch began
gloomily.

"I thought of that," Pennstrak interrupted him,
"and had my own expert go over the scanner films.
You know the high-security-risk set-up: rotating ex-
posures on the stationary TV eyes. One frame the
model was clothed; next, exposed in all its plastic
glory. It was a 'lift' all right. No possibility of tamper-
ing with that film." Pennstrak leaned forward to
Dave, though there was scarcely any need to guard
his statements in this company. "Furthermore, Pat
came along. She 'read' everyone at the store, and
Gilling's squad. Not Gillings, though. She said he has
a natural shield. The others were all clean ... at least,
of conspiracy." Pennstrak's snide grin faded quickly.
"I made her go rest. That's why there's no one with
me."

Op Owen accepted the information quietly. He had
half-hoped ... it was an uncharacteristic speculation
for him. However, it did save tune and Talent to have
had both store and police checked.

It had become general practice to have a strong
telepathic receiver in the entourage of any prominent
or controversial public figure. That Talent was rarely
identified publicly. He or she usually performed some
obvious service so that their constant presence was
easily explicable. Pat Tawfik was overtly Pennstrak's
chief speechwriter.

"I have, however," Pennstrak continued, "used my
official prerogative to supervise the hunt. There're
enough sympathetic people on the public media chan-
nels to play down the Talent angle--at my request.
But you know what this kind of adverse publicity is
going to do to you, this Center, and the Talented in
general. One renegade can discredit a hundred honest
Injuns. So, what can I do to help?"

"I wish I knew. We've got every available percep-
tive out on the off chance that this--ah, renegade
happens to be broadcasting joy and elation over her
heist."

"Her?"

"The consensus is that while a man might lift furs
and jewels, possibly the dress, only a woman would

245

take the shoes, too. Top finders are coming in from
other Centers ..."

"A 'find' is reported, boss," Charlie said over the
intercom. "Block Q."

As Pennstrak and op Owen reached the map, Welch
announced with a groan, "Gawd, that's a multilayer
apartment zone."

"A have-not," op Owen added.

"Gil Gracie made the find, boss," Charlie continued.
"And the fur is not all he's found but he's got a prob-
lem."

"You just bet he has," Les muttered under his
breath as he grimaced down at the map coordinates.

"Charlie, send every finder and perceptive to Block
Q. If they can come up with a fix ..."

"Boss, we got a fix, but there's one helluva lot of
similarities."

"What's the problem?" Pennstrak asked.

"We'll simply have to take our time and eliminate,
Charlie. Send anyone who can help." Then op Owen
turned to Pennstrak. "In reporting a 'find,' the percep-
tive is aware of certain particular spatial relationships
between the object sought and its immediate surround-
ings. It isn't as if he has seen the object as a camera
sees it. For example, have you ever entered a room,
turned down a street, or looked up quickly and had
the feeling that you had seen just"--and Daffyd made
a bracket of his hands--"that portion of the scene be-
fore, with exactly the same lighting, exactly the same
components? But only that portion of the scene, so
that the rest was an indistinguishable blur?"

Pennstrak nodded.

" 'Finding' is like that. Sometimes the Talent sees it
in lucid detail, sometimes it's obscured or, as in this
case, there are literally hundreds of possibilities . . .
apartments with the same light exposure, same scene
out the window, the same floor plan and furnishings.
Quite possible in this instance since these are furnished,
standard subsistence dwellings. Nothing to help us
single out, say Apartment 44E, Building 18, Buhler
Street."

"There happens to be a Building 18 on Buhler Street,

246

boss," Les Welch said slowly, "and there are forty-eight
levels, ten units per floor."

Pennstrak regarded op Owen with awe.

"Nonsense, this office is thoroughly shielded and
I'm not a pre-cog!"

"Before you guys took the guesswork out of it, there
were such things as hunches," Pennstrak suggested.

For op Owen's peace of mind and Lester's pose of
misogyny, it was neither Building 18 nor Buhler Street
nor Apartment 44. It was Apartment IE, deep in the
center of Q Block. No one had entered nor left it--
by normal means--since Gil Gracie and two other
finders had made a precise fix. Gil handed op Owen
the master key obtained from the dithering super.

"My Gawd," Pennstrak said in a voice muted with
shocked surprise as they swung open the door. "Like
an oriental bazaar."

"Indiscriminate pilfering on a wholesale basis," op
Owen corrected, glancing around at the rich brilliant
velvet drapes framing the dingy window to the wildly
clashing pillows thrown on the elegant Empire loveseat.
A marble-topped table was a jumble of pretty vases,
silver boxes, and goblets. Priceless china held decaying
remains of food. Underneath the table were jaggedly
opened, empty cans bearing the label of an extremely
expensive caterer. Two empty champagne bottles
pointed green, blind eyes in their direction. A portable
color 'caster was piled with discarded clothing; a black-
lace sheer body stocking draped in an obscene posture
across the inactive screen. "A magpie's nest rather,"
he sighed, "and I'd hazard that Maggie is very young
and has been poor all her life until . . ." He met
Pennstrak's sympathetic gaze. "Until our educational
program gave her the hints she needed to unlock her
special Talent."

"Gillings is going to have to work with you on this,
Dave," Pennstrak said reluctantly as he reached for
the intercom at his belt. "But first he's going to have
to apologize"

Op Owen shook his head vigorously. "I want his
cooperation, Julian, grudged or willing. When he really
believes in Talent, then he will apologize voluntarily
... and obliquely," he couldn't resist adding.

To op Owen's consternation, Gillings arrived noisily
in the cowlike lab copter, sirens going, lights flashing.

"Don't bother now," op Owen advised Pennstrak, for
he could see the City Manager forming a furious repri-
mand. "She might have been warned by the finders'
activity anyhow."

"Well, she's certainly been warned off now," Penn-
strak stalked off, to confer with one of his aides just as
Gillings strode into the corridor with his technicians.

According op Owen and Grade the merest nod,
Gillings began issuing crisp orders. He knew his busi-
ness, op Owen thought, and he evidently trusted these
technicians, for he didn't bother to crowd into the tiny
apartment to oversee them.

"As soon as your men have prints and a physical
profile. Commissioner, we'd like to run the data through
our computer. There's the chance that the girl did take
advantage of the open Talent test the Center has been
advertising."

"You mean you don't know who it is yet?"

"I found the coat since I knew what it looked like,"
Gil Gracie said, bristling at Gillings' manner.

"Then where is it?" Gillings gestured peremptorily
to the sable-less apartment.

"These are the shoes. Commissioner," said one of
his team, presenting the fragile jeweled footwear, now
neatly sealed in clear plastic. "Traces of dirt, dust,
fleck of nail enamel and from the 'scope imprint, I'd
say they were too big for her."

Gillings stared at the shoes disinterestedly. "No
sign of the dress?"                                    :

"Still looking."

"Odd that you people can't locate a girl with bare
feet in a sable coat and a bright blue silk gown?"

"No odder than it is for your hundreds of patrolmen
throughout the city, Commissioner, to overlook a girl
so bizarrely dressed," op Owen said with firm good
humor. "When you 'saw' the coat, Gil, where was it?"

"Thrown across the loveseat, one arm hanging down
to the floor. I distinguished the edge of the sill and the
tree outside, the first folds of the curtain, and the
wall heating unit. I called in, you sent over enough

248

finders so that we were able to eliminate the similarities.
It took us nearly an hour ..."

"Were you keeping an 'eye' on the coat all the
time?" Gillings demanded in a voice so devoid of ex-
pression that his contempt was all the more obvious.

Gil flushed, bit his lip, and only partially inhibited
by op Owen's subtle warning, snapped back, "Try
keeping your physical eye on an object for an hour!"

"Get some rest, Gil," op Owen suggested gently. He
waited until the finder had turned the corner. "If you
are as determined to find this criminal as you say you
are, Commissioner Gillings, then do not destroy the
efficiency of my staff by such gratuitous criticism. In
less than four hours, on the basis of photographs of
the stolen objects, we located this apartment. . ."

"But not the criminal, who is still in possession of
a sable coat which you found once but have now un-
accountably lost."

"That's enough, Gillings," said Pennstrak, who had
rejoined them. "Thanks to your arrival, the girl must
know she's being sought and is shielding."

Pennstrak gestured toward the dingy windows of the
flat, through which the vanes of the big copter were
visible. A group of children, abandoning the known
objects of the development play-yard, had gathered at
a respectful but curiosity-satisfying distance.

"Considering the variety of her accomplishments,"
op Owen said, not above using Pennstrak's irritation
with his Commissioner to advantage, "I'm sure she
knew of the search before the Commissioner's arrival,
Julian. Have any of these items been reported. Com-
missioner?"

"That console was. Two days ago. It was on 'find,'
too."

"She has been growing steadily bolder, then," op
Owen went on, depressed by Gillings' attitude. And
depressed that such a Talent had emerged twisted,
perverted, selfish. Why? Why? "If your department
ever gets the chronology of the various thefts, we'd
appreciate the copy."

"Why?" Gillings turned to stare at op Owen, sur-
prised and irritated.

"Talent takes time to develop--in ordinary persons.
249

It does not, like the ancient goddess Athena, spring
full-grown from the forehead. This girl could not, for
instance, have lifted that portable set the first time she
used her Talent. The more data we have on ... the
lecture is ill-timed."

Gillings' unspoken "you said it" did reach op Owen,
whose turn it was to stare in surprise.

"Well, your 'finders' are not novices," the Commis-
sioner said aloud. "If they traced the coat once, why
not again?"

"Every perceptive we have is searching," op Owen
assured him. "But, if she was able to leave this apart-
ment after Gil found the coat, taking it with her be-
cause it obviously is not here, she also is capable of
shielding herself and that coat. And, until she slips
that guard, I doubt we'll find it or her."

The report on the laboratory findings was exhaus-
tive. There was a full set of prints, foot and finger.
None matched those on file in the city records, or Fed-
eral or Immigration. She had not been tested at the
Center. Long coarse black hah- had been found. Skin
flakes analyzed suggested an olive complexion.
Thermo-photography placed her last appearance in
the room at approximately the time the four "finders"
fixed on her apartment, thus substantiating op Owen's
guess. The thermal prints also revealed that she was of
slender build, approximately five-four, weighing 105
pounds. Stains on a kitchen knife proved her to possess
blood type 0. No one else had occupied the apartment
within the eight-day range of the thermography used.

From such records, the police extrapolator made a
rough sketch of Maggie 0 as she was called for want
of a better name. The sketch was taken around the
neighborhood with no success. People living in Block
Q didn't bother people who didn't bother them.

It was Daffyd op Owen who remembered the chil-
dren crowding the police copter. From them he elicited
the information that she was new in the building. (The
records indicated that the apartment should be va-
cant.) She was always singing, dancing to the wall-
'caster, and changing her clothes. Occasionally she'd
play with them and bring out rich food to eat, prom-
ising they could have such good things if they'd think
hard about them. While the children talked, Daffyd
"saw" Maggie's face reflected in their minds. The po-
lice extrapolator had been far short of the reality. She
was not much older than the children she had played
with. She had not been pretty by ordinary standards
but she had been so "different" that her image had
registered sharply. The narrow face, the brilliant eyes,
slightly slanted above sharp cheekbones, the thin,
small mouth, and the pointed chin were unusual even
in an area of ethnic variety.

This likeness and a physical description were circu-
lated quickly to be used at all exits to the city and all
transportation facilities. It was likely she'd try to slip
out during the day-end exodus.

The south and west airstrips had been under a per-
ceptive surveillance since the search had been inaugu-
rated. Now every facility was guarded.

Gil Gracie "found" the coat again.

"She must have it in a suitcase," he reported on the
police-provided hand unit from his position in the
main railroad concourse. "It's folded and surrounded
by dark. It's moving up and down. But there're so
many people. So many suitcases. I'll circulate. Maybe
the find'U fix itself."

Gillings gave orders to his teams on the master unit
which had been set up in the Center's control room to
coordinate the operations.

"You better test Gil for pre-cog," Charlie muttered
to op Owen after they'd contacted all the sensitives.
"He asked for the station."

"You should've told me sooner, Charlie. I'd've
teamed him with a sensitive."

"Lookit that," Charlie exclaimed, pointing to a wildly
moving needle on one of the remotes.

Les was beside it even as the audio for the Incident
went on.

"Not that track! Oh! Watch out! Baggage. On the
handcart! Watch out. Move, man. Move! To the right.
The right! Ahhhh." The woman's voice choked off in
an agonized cry.

Daffyd pushed Charlie out of the way, to get to
the speaker.

251

"Gil this is op Owen. Do not pursue. Do not pursue
that girl! She's aware of you. Gil, come in. Answer me,
Gil. . . . Charlie, keep trying to raise him. Gillings,
contact your men at the station. Make them stop Gil
Gracie."

"Stop him? Why?"

"The pre-cog. The baggage on the handcart," shouted
Daffyd, signaling frantically to Lester to explain in
detail. He raced for the emergency stairs, up the two
flights, and slammed out onto the roof. Gasping for
breath, he clung to the high retaining wall and pro-
jected his mind to Gil's.

He knew the man so well, trained Gil when an em-
ployer brought in the kid who had a knack for locating
things. Op Owen could see him ducking and dodging
through the trainward crowds, touching suitcases, ig-
noring irate or astonished carriers; every nerve, every
ounce, of him receptive to the "feel" of a dense, dark
sable fur. And so single-minded that Daffyd could not
"reach" him.

But op Owen knew the instant the loaded baggage
cart swerved and crushed the blindly intent Talent
against an I-beam. He bowed his head, too fully cog-
nizant that a double tragedy had occurred. Gil was
lost... and so now was the girl.

There was no peace from his thoughts even when
he returned to the shielded control room. Lester and
Charlie pretended to be very busy. Gillings was. He
directed the search of the railway station, arguing
with the stationmaster that the trains were to be held
and that was that! The drone of his voice began to
penetrate op Owen's remorse.

"All right, then, if the Talents have cleared it and
there's no female of the same height and weight, re-
lease that train. Someone tried the Johns, didn't they?
No, Sam, you can detain anyone remotely suspicious.
That girl is clever, strong, and dangerous. There's
no telling what else she could do. But she damn well
can't change her height, weight, and blood type!"

"Daffyd. Daffyd." Lester had to touch him to get his
attention. He motioned op Owen toward Charlie, who
was holding out the hand unit.

252

"It's Coles, sir."

Daffyd listened to the effusively grateful store man-
ager. He made the proper responses, but it wasn't until
he had relinquished the hand unit to Charlie that the
man's excited monologue made sense.

"The coat, the dress, and the necklace have reap-
peared on the store dummy," op Owen said. He cleared
his throat and repeated it loud enough to be heard.

"Returned?" Gillings echoed. "Just like that? Why,
the little bitch! Sam, check the ladies' rooms in that
station. Wait, isn't there a discount dress store in that
station? Have them check for missing apparel. I want an
itemized list of what's gone, and an exact duplicate
from their stock shown to the sensitives. We've got her
scared and running now."

"Scared and running now." Gillings' smug assess-
ment rang ominously in Daffyd's mind. He had a sud-
den flash. Superimposed over a projection of Maggie's
thin face was the image of the lifeless store dummy,
elegantly reclad in the purloined blue gown and dark
fur. "Here, take them back. I don't want them any-
more. I didn't mean to kill him. I didn't mean to. See,
I gave back what you wanted. Now leave me alone!"

Daffyd shook his head. Wishful thinking. Just as
futile as the girl's belated gesture of penance. Too much
too soon. Too little too late.

"We don't want her scared," he said out loud. "She
was scared when she toppled that baggage cart."

"She killed a man when she toppled that baggage
cart, op Owen!" Gillings was all but shouting.

"And if we're not very careful, she'll kill others."

"If you think I'm going to velvet glove a homicidal
maniac. .."

A shrill tone issuing from the remote unit forced
Gillings to answer. He was about to reprimand the
caller but the message got his stunned attention.

"We can forget the paternal bit, Owen. She knocked
down every one of your people and mine at the Oriole
Street entrance. Your men are unconscious. Mine and
about twenty or more innocent commuters are afflicted
with blinding headaches. Got any practical ideas, Owen,
on catching this monster you created?"

2?3

"Oriole? Was she heading east or west?"

"Does it matter?"

"If we're to catch her it does. And we must catch
her. She's operating at a psychic high. There's no tell-
ing what she's capable of now. Such Talent has only
been a theoretic possibility . . ."

Gillings lost all control of himself. The fear and
hatred burst out in such a wave that Charlie Moorfield,
caught unaware, erupted out of his chair toward Gill-
ings in an instinctive defense reaction.

"Gillings!" "Charlie!" Les and Daffyd shouted to-
gether, each grabbing the whilom combatants. But
Charlie, his face white with shock at his own reaction,
had himself in hand. Sinking weakly back into his
chair, he gasped out an apology.

"You mean, you want to have more monsters like
her and him?" Gillings demanded. Between his voice
and the violent emotions, Daffyd's head rang with pain
and confusion.

"Don't be a fool," Lester said, grabbing the Com-
missioner by the arm. "You can't spew emotions like
that around a telepath and not get a reaction. Look at
Daffyd! Look at Charlie! Christ, man, you're as bad as
the scared, mixed up kid ..." Then Les dropped
Gillings' arm and stared at him in amazement. "Christ,
you're a telepath yourself!"

"Quiet, everybody," Daffyd said with such urgency
he had their instant attention. "I've the solution. And
there's no time to waste. Charlie, I want Harold Orley
airbound in the Clinic's copter heading south to the
Central Station in nothing flat. We'll correct course en
route. Gillings, I want two of the strongest, most stable
patrolmen on your roster. I want them armed with
fast-acting, double-strength trank guns and airborne to
rendezvous near Central Station."

"Harold?" Les echoed in blank astonishment and
then relief colored his face as he understood Daffyd's
intentions. "Of course. Nothing can stop Harold. And
no one can read him coming."

"Nothing. And no one," op Owen agreed bleakly.

Gillings turned from issuing his orders to see an
ambulance copter heading west across the sky.

2?4

"We're following?"

Daffyd nodded and gestured for Gillings to precede
him to the roof. He didn't look back but he knew what
Les and Charlie did not say.

She had been seen running east on Oriole. And
she was easy to follow. She left people doubled up
with nausea and crying with head pains. That is,
until she crossed Boulevard.

"We'll head south-southeast on an intercept," Gil-
lings told his pilot and had him relay the correction to
the ambulance. "She's heading to the sea?" he asked
rhetorically as he rummaged for the correct airmap of
the city. "Here. We can set down at Seaman's Park. She
can't have made it that far ... unless she can fly
suddenly." Gillings looked up at op Owen.

"She probably could teleport herself," Daffyd an-
swered, watching the Commissioner's eyes narrow in
adverse reaction to the admission. "But she hasn't
thought of it yet. As long as she can be kept running,
too scared to think . . ." That necessity would ever
plague Daffyd op Owen: that they must run her out
of her mind.

Gillings ordered all police hovercraft to close in on
the area where she was last seen, blocks of residences
and small businesses of all types.

By the time the three copters had made their ren-
dezvous at the small park, there were no more visible
signs of Maggie 0's retreat.

As Gillings made to leave the copter, Daffyd op
Owen stopped him.

"If you're not completely under control, Gillings,
Harold will be after you."

Gillings looked at the director for a long moment,
his jaw set stubbornly. Then, slowly, he settled into the
seat and handed op Owen a remote corn-unit.

"Thanks, Gillings," he said, and left the copter. He
signaled to the ambulance to release Harold Orley and
then strode across the grass to the waiting officers.

The two biggest men were as burly as he could wish.
Being trained law enforcers, they ought to be able to
handle Orley. Op Owen "pushed" gently against their
minds and was satisfied with his findings. They pos-

25?

sessed the natural shielding of the untemperamental
which made them less susceptible to emotional storms.
Neither Webster nor Heis was stupid, however, and
they had been briefed on developments.

"Oriey has no useful intelligence. He is a human
barometer, measuring the intensity and type of emo-
tions which surround him and reacting instinctively.
He does not broadcast. He only receives. Therefore
he cannot be harmed or identified by ... by Maggie
0. He is the only Talent she cannot 'hear' approach-
ing."

"But, if he reaches her, he'd . . ." Webster began,
measuring Harold with the discerning eye of a boxing
enthusiast. Then he shrugged and turned politely to
op Owen.

"You've the double-strength tranks? Good. I hope
you'll be able to use them in time. But it is imperative
that she be apprehended before she does more harm.
She has already killed one man . . ."

"We understand, sir," Heis said when op Owen did
not continue.

"If you can, shoot her. Once she stops broadcasting,
he'll soon return to a manageable state." But, Daffyd
amended to himself, remembering Harold sprawled on
the ground in front of the building, not soon enough.
"She was last seen on the east side of the boulevard,
about eight blocks from here. She'd be tired, looking
for someplace to hide and rest. But she is also prob-
ably radiating sufficient emotion for Harold to pick up.
He'll react by heading in a straight line for the source.
Keep him from trying to plow through solid walls. Keep
your voices calm when you speak to him. Use simple
commands. I see you've got hand units. I'll be air-
borne; the copter's shielded but I'll help when I can."

Flanking Harold, Webster and Heis moved west
along Oriole at a brisk even walk: the two officers in
step, Harold's head bobbing above theirs. His being out
of step was a cruel irony.

Daffyd op Owen turned back to the copter. He
nodded to Gillings as he seated himself. He tried not to
think at all.

As the copters lifted from the park and drifted slowly

2?6

west amid other air traffic, op Owen looked sadly down
at the people on the streets. At kids playing on the
sidewalks. At a flow of men and women with brief-
cases or shopping bags, hurrying home. At snub-nosed
city cars and squatty trucks angling into parking slots.
At the bloated cross-city helibuses jerking and settling
to disgorge their passengers at the street islands.

"He's twitching," Heis reported in a dispassionate
voice.

Daffyd flicked on the handset. "That's normal. He's
beginning to register."

"He's moving faster now. Keeps wanting to go
straight through the buildings." Reading Heis' under-
tone, op Owen knew that the men hadn't believed his
caution about Oriey plowing through solids. "He's
letting us guide him, but he keeps pushing us to the
right. You take his other arm. Web. Yeah, that's bet-
ter."

Gillings had moved to the visual equipment along
one side of the copter .He focused deftly in on the trio,
magnified it, and threw the image on the pilot's screen,
too. The copter adjusted direction.

"Easy, Oriey. No, don't try to stop him. Web. Stop
the traffic!"

Orley's line of march crossed the busier wide north-
south street. Webster ran out to control the vehicles.
People turned curiously. Stopped and stared after the
trio.

"Don't," op Owen ordered as he saw Gillings move
a hand towards the bullhorn. "There's nothing wrong
with her hearing."

Oriey began to move faster now that he had reached
the farther side. He wanted to go right through inter-
vening buildings.

"Guide him left to the sidewalk, Heis," op Owen
advised. "I think he's still amenable. He isn't running
yet."

"He's breathing hard, Mr. Owen." Heis sounded
dubious. "And his face is changing."

Op Owen nodded to himself, all too familiar with
the startling phenomena of watching the blankness of
Orley's face take on the classic mask of whatever emo-

257

tions he was receiving. It would be a particularly un-
nerving transition under these conditions.

"What does he show?"

"I'd say ... hatred." Heis' voice dropped on the
last word. Then he added in his usual tone, "He's
smiling, too, and it isn't nice."

They had eased Oriey to the sidewalk heading west.
He kept pushing Webster to the right and his pace in-
creased until it was close to a run. Webster and Heis
began to gesture people out of their way but it would
soon be obvious to the neighborhood that something
was amiss. Would it be better to land more police to
reassure people and keep their emanations down? Or
would they broadcast suppressed excitement at police
interference? She'd catch that. Should he warn Heis
and Webster to keep their thoughts on Harold Orley?
Or would that be like warning them against all thoughts
of the camel's left knee?

Orley broke into a run. Webster and Heis were hard
put to keep him to the sidewalk.

"What's in the next block?" op Owen asked Gill-
ings.

The Commissioner consulted the map, holding it Just
above the scanner so he could keep one eye on the
trio below.

"Residences and an area parking facility for inter-
state trucking." Gillings turned to op Owen now, his
heavy eyebrows raised in question.

"No, she's still there because Oriey is homing in on
her projection."

"Look at his face! My God!" Heis exclaimed over
the hand-unit. On the screen, his figure had stopped.
He was pointing at Orley. But Webster's face was
clearly visible to the surveillers; and what he saw un-
nerved him.

Orley broke from his guides. He was running,
slowly at first but gathering speed steadily, mindlessly
brushing aside anything that stood in his way. Heis and
Webster were after him but both men were shaking
their heads as if something were bothering them. Oriey
tried to plunge through a brick store wall. He bounced
off it, saw the 'unimpeded view of his objective, and

2?8

charged forward. Webster had darted ahead of him,
blowing his whistle to stop the oncoming traffic. Heis
alternately yelled into the hand unit and at startled
bystanders. Now some of them were afflicted and were
grabbing their heads.

"Put us on the roof," op Owen told the pilot. "Gill-
ings, get men to cover every entrance and exit to
that parking lot. Get the copters to hover by the open
levels. The men'U be spared some of the lash."

It wouldn't do much good, op Owen realized, even
as he felt the first shock of the girl's awareness of im-
minent danger.

"Close your mind," he yelled at the pilot and Gill-
ings. "Don't think."

"My head, my head." It was Heis groaning.
"Concentrate on Orley," op Owen advised, his hands
going to his temples in reaction to the knotting pres-
sure. Heis's figure on the scanner staggered after Orley,
who had now entered the parking facility.

Op Owen caught the mental pressure and dis-
persed it, projecting back reassurance/help/protection/
compassion. He could forgive her Gil Grade's death.
So would any Talent. If she would instantly surrender,
somehow the Centers would protect her from the legal
aspects of her act. Only surrender now.

Someone screamed. Another man echoed that pierc-
ing cry. The copter bucked and jolted them. The pilot
was groaning and gasping. Gillings plunged forward,
grabbing the controls.

Op Owen, fighting an incredible battle, was blind to
physical realities. If he could just occupy all the atten-
tion of that overcharged mind . . . hold it long enough
. . . pain/fear/black/red/moiled-orange/purples . . .
breathing . . . shock. Utter disbelief/fear/loss of confi-
dence. Frantic physical effort.

Concrete scraped op Owen's cheek. His fingers bled
as he clawed at a locked steel exit door on the roof.
He could not enter. He had to reach her FIRST!

Somehow his feet found the stairs as he propelled
himself down the fire escape, deliberately numbing
his mind to the intensive pounding received. A pound-
ing that became audible.

2?9

Then he saw her, fingers clawing for leverage on the
stab-post, foot poised for the step from the landing. A
too thin, adolescent figure, frozen for a second with in-
decision and shock; strands of black hair like vicious
scars across a thin face, distorted and ugly from the
tremendous physical and mental efforts of the frantic
will. Her huge eyes, black with insane fury and terror,
bloodshot with despair and the salty sweat of her des-
perate striving for escape, looked into his.

She knew him for what he was; and her hatred
crackled in his mind. Those words--after Gil Grade's
death--had been hers, not his distressed imagining.
She had known him then as her real antagonist. Only
now was he forced to recognize her for what she was,
all she was--and regrettably, all she would not be.

He fought the inexorable decision of that split-second
confrontation, wanting more than anything else in his
life that it did not have to be so.

She was the wiser! She whirled!

She was suddenly beyond the heavy fire door without
opening it. Harold Orley, charging up the stairs behind   j
her, had no such Talent. He crashed with sickening
force into the metal door. Daffyd had no alternative.
She had teleported. He steadied the telempath, de-
pressed the lock bar, and threw the door wide.

Orley was after the slender figure fleeing across the
dimly lit, low-ceilinged concrete floor. She was head-
ing toward the down ramp now.

"Stop, stop," op Owen heard his voice begging her.

Heis came staggering from the stairway.

"Shoot him. For Christ's sake, shoot Orley, Heis,"
op Owen yelled.

Heis couldn't seem to coordinate. Op Owen tried
to push aside his fumbling hands and grab the trank
gun himself. Heis's trained reflexes made him cling all
the tighter to his weapon. Just then, op Owen heard
the girl's despairing shriek.

Two men had appeared at the top of the ramp.
They both fired, the dull reports of trank pistols accen-
tuated by her choked gasp.

"Not her. Shoot Orley. Shoot the man," op Owen
cried, but it1 was too late.

260

Even as the girl crumpled to the floor, Orley grabbed
her. Grabbed and tore and beat at the source of the
emotions which so disturbed him. Beat and tore and
stamped as she had assaulted him.

Orley's body jerked as tranks hit him from several
sides, but it took far too long for them to override the
adrenal reactions of the overcharged telempath.

There was pain and pity as well as horror in
Gillings' eyes when he came running onto the level.
The police .stood at a distance from the blood-spattered
bodies.

"Gawd, couldn't someone have stopped him from
getting her?" the copter pilot murmured, turning away
from the shapeless bloodied thing half-covered by Or-
ley's unconscious body.

"The door would have stopped Orley, but he," Heis
grimly pointed at op Owen, "opened it for him."

"She teleported through the door," op Owen said
weakly. He had to lean against the wall. He was be-
ginning to shudder uncontrollably. "She had to be
stopped. Now. Here. Before she realized what she'd
done. What she could do." His knees buckled. "She
teleported through the door!"

Unexpectedly, it was Gillings who came to his aid, a
Gillings whose mind was no longer shielded but broad-
casting compassion and awe, and understanding.

"So did you."

The phrase barely registered in op Owen's mind
when he passed out.

"That's all that remains of the late Solange Boshe,"
Gillings said, tossing the file reel to the desk. "As much
of her life as we've been able to piece together. Gyp-
sies don't stay long anywhere."

"There're some left?" Lester Welch asked, frowning
at the three-inch condensation of fifteen years of a
human life.

"Oh there are, I assure you," Gillings replied, his
tone souring slightly for the first time since he had
entered the office. "The tape also has a lengthy inter-
view with Bill Jones, the cousin the social worker lo-
cated after Solange had recovered from the bronchial

261

pneumonia. He had no idea," Gillings hastily assured
them, "that there is any reason other than a routine
check on the whereabouts of a runaway county ward.
He had a hunch," Gillings grimaced, "that the family
had gone on to Toronto. They had. He also thought
that they had probably given the girl up for dead when
she collapsed on the street. The Toronto report sub-
stantiates that. So I don't imagine it will surprise you,
op Owen, that her tribe, according to Jones, are the
only ones still making a living at fortune-telling,
palm-reading, tea leaves and that bit."

"Now, just a minute, Gillings," Lester began, bris-
tling. He subsided when he saw that his boss and the
Commissioner were grinning at each other.

"So . . . just as you suspected, op Owen, she was a
freak Talent. We know from the ward nurses that she
watched your propaganda broadcasts during her hos-
pitalization. We can assume that she was aware of the
search either when Gil Gracie 'found' the coat, or
when the definite fix was made. It's not hard to guess
her motivation in making the heist in the first place
nor her instinctive desire to hide." Gillings gave his
head an abrupt violent jerk and stood up. He started
to hold out his hand, remembered, and raised it in a
farewell gesture. "You are continuing those broadcasts,
aren't you?"

Lester Welch glared so balefully at the Commissioner
that op Owen had to chuckle.

"With certain deletions, yes."

"Good. Talent must be identified and trained.
Trained young and well if they are to use their
Talent properly." Gillings stared op Owen in the eye.
"The Boshe girl was bad, op Owen, bad clear through.
Listen to what Jones said about her and you won't re-
gret Tuesday too much. Sometimes the young are in-
flexible, too."

"I agree, Commissioner," Daffyd said, escorting the
man to the door as calmly as if he hadn't heard what
Gillings was thinking so clearly. "And we appreciate
your help in the cover yarns that explained Tuesday's
odd occurrences."

262

"A case of mutual understanding," Gillings said, his
eyes glinting. "Oh, no need to see me out. / can open
this door."

That door was no sooner firmly shut behind him
than Lester Welch turned on his superior.

"And just who was scratching whose back then?"
he demanded. "Don't you dare come over innocent,
either, Daffyd op Owen. Two days ago that man was
your enemy, bristling with enough hate and distrust to
antagonize me."

"Remember what you said about Gillings Tuesday?"

"There's been an awful lot of idle comment around
here lately."

"Frank Gillings is telepathic." Then he added as
Lester was choking on the news. "And he doesn't want
to be. So he's suppressed it. Naturally he'd be antag-
onistic."

"Hah!"

"He's not too old, but he's not flexible enough to
adapt to Talent, having denied it so long."

"I'll buy that. But what was that parting shot--7
can open this door'?" Lester mimicked the Commis-
sioner's deep voice.

"I'm too old to leam new tricks, too, Les. I tele-
ported through the roof door of that parking facility.
He saw me do it. And she saw the memory of it in my
mind. If she'd lived, she'd've picked my mind clean.
And I didn't want her to die."

Op Owen turned abruptly to the window, trying to
let the tranquility of the scene restore his equilibrium.
It did--until he saw Harold Orley plodding along the
path with his guide. Instantly a white, wide-eyed, hair-
streaked face was superimposed over the view.

The intercom beeped and he depressed the key for
his sanity's sake.

"We've got a live one, boss," and Sally Iselin's gay
voice restored him. "A strong pre-cog with kinetic
possibilities. And guess what?" Sally's excitement made
her voice breathless. "He said the cop on his beat told
him to come in. He doesn't want any more trouble
with the cops so he . .."

"Would his name be Bill Jones?"

263

"However did you know?"

"And that's no pre-cog, Sally," op Owen said with
a ghost of a laugh, aware he was beginning to look
forward again. "A sure thing's no pre-cog, is it, Les?"

264

For those of you who have consistently asked for
more Helva stories, here is "Honeymoon." Only it's
an un'story. I call it that because it cannot stand with-
out a lot of explanation which really makes the minor
incident that is the meat of the story much too top'
heavy. You really ought to have read at least "The
Ship Who Sang," the story, if not the full novel, to
understand what is left out.

I have often called Helva my alter ego. "The Ship
Who Sang" is my favorite story; I still cannot reread
it without weeping, for I wrote it in an unconscious
attempt to ease my grief over the death of my father,
the Colonel. The other yams in the novel were therapy
for other personal problems, none of which actually
figure in the plots. So, although this tale should have
been the starting point of a new volume about Niall
Parollan and Helva, I don't really yet know if Helva
will sing again. "Honeymoon" does tie up the one loose
end which the majority of my readers have complained
to me about.

26?

well, that young

Honeymoon

"MAY I COME ABOARD, HELVA?"

Helva said yes without thinking because the traffic
in technicians and Base officials attending to her re-
fitting was constant. Then, she checked identity be-
cause while the voice was familiar, no technician would
have couched such a formal request.

Rocco, Regulus representative for Mutant Minori-
ties, was her unexpected caller. With the easy manner
of one used to the protocol of brain-brawn ships, the
Double M man saluted her behind the central column
and sauntered into the lounge, looking about him with
interest at the choice artifacts Niall had introduced,
the circuit prints and cables draped about the control
console, the pattern of dust and grit leading toward her
engineering and cargo compartments.

"I've stopped apologizing for the mess," Helva said,
"but the galley's intact if you don't mind serving your-
self while Niall's not here ..."

"I'm here because he isn't, Helva," Rocco said,
refusing her hospitality with a courteous gesture and
seating himself facing her panel.

"In which capacity? Double M, or Rocco?"

"Unofficially, but Rocco is always willing." Then
he hesitated, biting the comer of his lip while Helva
waited, amused that the suave, fashionably attired
troubleshooter for Double M was at a loss for words.
He'd had no block a scant seven days ago when he'd
been needling Chief Railly before she'd extended her
Central Worlds contract. "Let's just say that I had an
interesting conversation yesterday which leads me to

266

beg the indulgence of a chat--an unofficial chat-
with you."

"On what subject?"

"Coercion?"

"Whose?" Helva was amused.

"Yours, primarily. Parollan's . .
man can take care of himself."

Helva chuckled. "Now, Mr. Rocco, you were in
Chief Railly's office that day."

Rocco impatiently brushed that side. "Yes, I heard
the official line. They got you to extend your original
contract with them . .. which was almost legal."

"Very legal, Rocco. I did some surreptitious check-
ing myself. And I got them . . ."

Rocco held up his hand, peremptorily cutting her
off. "Did or did not Railly deploy a detachment around
you, effectively preventing you from lifting off if you'd
so desired? And did or did not Parollan have to short
out a perimeter fence to get to you?"
"There was a little misunderstanding ..."
"Little?" Rocco's swarthy face darkened to empha-
size that single explosion. "My dear Helva, I have my
sources, too. Railly had the entire planetary security
force, civilian and service, looking for Parollan."

"I had Broley on my side." Helva chuckled for the
city shell person's cooperation had been involuntary.
Broley still wasn't speaking to her because she hadn't
opted for independent status and taken on one of the
clients he bad lined up for her.
"So you did. Do you now?"
"Oh, he'll sulk a while longer, I expect."
Rocco hitched himself to the edge of the couch.
"Now, look, Helva, I know what it says on paper but
I also know that Parollan's resignation from the Service
is still in effect. Oh, he's brawning you to Beta Corvi,
but there isn't anything contractual after that."
"So?"

"Helva, I don't mean for you to be left high and
dry. Especially with an incredible extension of debt
which you must work off. And with Chief Railly overtly
your enemy because of Parollan. Now that guy may
have been a brawn-brain ship supervisor for the last
twelve years, and bloody good at it from what I hear,

267

but that doesn't mean he's going to be a good brawn.
By anything left holy, Helva, it's a long way from tell-
ing to doing."

"Do you remember my last brawn, Teron of Acthion,
that well-trained, physically stalwart twithead?"

Rocco gave a long sigh that ended with a grudging
grin. "Okay, so he was a dud that BB School turned
out by mistake. You can go too far in the opposite
direction." Obviously Rocco felt she had with Parol-
lan. "Seriously, Helva, that contract extension makes
my skin crawl. You're committed to repaying almost
600,000 credits ... by the latest figuring."

"You do have good sources, Rocco."

He grinned again, maliciously. "In Double M, I've
got to. Look, there's a lot more to this whole affair
than the fact that in a scant ten years you paid off
your original indebtedness to Central Worlds for your
early childhood care, the initial shell, education, the
surgery needed to fit you into this ship, maintenance,
and so forth."

"I paid off partly due to Niall Parollan, remember?"

"Granted, granted."

"And when this cycle-variant drive we're taking
back to Beta Corvi gets approved, we'll be out of debt
in next to no time."

"Not when, Helva. //. If wishes were horses, beggars
would ride. I saw the reports on that cycle-variant
drive, Helva. I heard what happened to the manned
test ship."

Helva snorted with contempt. "Ham-handed fools."

Rocco would not be diverted. "I don't mean the fact
that they inadvertently cycled the power source too
high, Helva, I mean that curious discharge that is
worrying the nuclear boys juiceless."

"Why do you think we're taking it back to Beta
Corvi?"

"And thank the gods that you are." Rocco recrossed
his neatly booted legs in a nervous fashion. "Whatever
that particular force is, it's bloody dangerous. And no
one seems to know why or how."

"They'll tell me." At least, she amended privately,
she thought they would. If only because the use to
which humans put their minor form of stabilized energy

268

amused them. (And what did you do on Beta Corvi
for an encore, Helva?) She was far from happy about
having to go back to Beta Corvi, but the ends justified
the means ... she hoped.

To have a warp drive in her bowels! To soar when
she'd been forced to plod in a plebeian fashion. And
the hell with Rocco's "if" . . . although the if was a
valid consideration. Still, she trusted the Corviki: she'd
been a Corviki.

"Look, Rocco, that drive is worth a great deal of
hassling and stress. Niall knows it. I know it."

"Why?"

"The cycle-variant is faster than light drive, it's
warp. By being able to stabilize an unstable isotope at
just the moment it is releasing its tremendous quantity
of energy, the cycle-variant drive captures all that
energy because the isotope doesn't dwindle downscale
to a useless half-life. It remains at the constant high-
energy peak. That output is controlled in its cycle of
peak energy, and the rate of thrust--the speed of the
ship powered that way--is determined by the ratio of
cycles used at any given time. True, you can't lift off-
planet on c-v drive, and a ship has to be structurally
reinforced."

"And that odd trail of particles?" Rocco asked
sardonically. "Those unknown thingies that have
thrown communications haywire, loused up astroga-
tional equipment, not to mention the solar phenomena
recorded in the systems through which that test ship
ran?"

Helva was silent. She was less certain of how the
Beta Corviki could cope with those emissions. Unless
there'd been a simple perversion of the data?

"Then there's the old philosophical question: Is this
trip really necessary? Is man ready for this sort of
progress?"

"Rocco! I'd thought better of you." Helva was sur-
prised as well as scornful. " 'If man were meant to
fly, he'd've been given wings.' "

Rocco regarded Helva with great tolerance and some
sadness. "Helva, in my job, I become painfully aware
that some progress costs too much in terms of human

269

adjustment, or emotional, psychological, or even phys-
iological stress."

"On the pro side, look at the exploration potential
for a hundred different minorities."

Rocco sighed. "I suppose we're committed to prog-
ress at any cost. Onward and upward for bigger, better,
faster, smaller, tougher. However, back to my original
topic, your coercion."

"There isn't any, Rocco."

"Oh? Have you any idea, Helva, how many circuits
lead into this?"

"I know of a few, but I think you're going to tell
me."

"Setting aside your understandable yearning to be
the fastest virgin in the Galaxy--and you'll need the
speed with Parollan aboard ..."

"Tsk, tsk, jealous?"

"Or Parollan's wish to prove himself a better brawn
than the prototype, we have dear Chief Railly, all set
for that jump onto Central Worlds Council."

"Is that why he's been on our backs like a leech?"

"You didn't know? Tsk! Tsk on you, Helva. Yesiree
ma'am! Since the civilian branch has blown it with
their manned ship, think of all the glory accruing to
one Chief Railly for getting the drive approved, of get-
ting you, the very valuable and very well known 834
to extend her contract, thanks to his masterful hand-
ling of the negotiations."

Helva made a rude noise. "Parollan masterminded
it."

"Undoubtedly he did, but Railly gets the official
credit. Not only does Railly have a finger in your pie
to be gold-plated; Dobrinon has first whack at the big-
gest Xeno plum in psychological history; Breslaw is
frankly starry-eyed with visions of commanding the
warp-drive squadrons."

"Rocco? What's in it for you?"

"Me?" Rocco made his eyes innocently wide.

"I'd've thought you'd be flogging me, too, to rescue
the four I left behind me. --Oh, so that's it. Yes, they
would be classed as mutant minorities."

"That's the kindest designation." Rocco cleared his
throat.

270

"Yes, there was a lot of unfavorable publicity about
them. I'd've thought the news value long since ex-
hausted."

"It wasn't so much publicity, Helva," said Rocco,
again biting the corner of his lip thoughtfully. One
booted toe swung up and down. "No, society just
doesn't like its members opting out of its grasp, par-
ticularly into a total alien form."

"Not to mention leaving their bodies behind." Helva
had always wondered what had happened to the empty
husks of Kuria Ster, Solar Prane, Chaddress of Turo,
and . . . Ansra Colmer. But not so much that she
could bring herself to ask. When she and the rest of
the dramatic troupe had presented Romeo and Juliet
to the Beta Corvi--in exchange for the stabilization
of isotopes--they had had to use "envelopes" suitable
to the methane-ammonia atmosphere of the planet. A
timer had been rigged in the transfer helmets to insure
that that consciousness returned to its proper environ-
ment. After the final performance, four people had
not returned and were encapsuled in the Beta Corvi
envelope. For very good and understandable reasons,
or so Xenologist Dobrinon would like her to believe.

"There has been considerable pressure, you know,"
Rocco was saying, "on both SPRIM and Double M
to investigate their defection/emigration/tempta-
tion . . ." He shrugged at the euphemisms employed.
"Or at least to bring back conclusive evidence that they
are happy in their new lives."

"I know two who are--three. Solar Prane has a new
body; Kuria couldn't care less about hers so long as it
was near his; Chaddress had nothing to look forward
to in retirement, and Ansra Colmer ..."

Rocco eyed Helva keenly, expectantly. "And Ansra
Colmer. . ."

"Oh, the Corviki knew how to handle her."

"Hmmm."

"But aren't you slightly in conflict with yourself,
Rocco? I mean, you class shell people as mutant mi-
norities, though strictly speaking I'm a cyborg--"

"Yes, Helva," Rocco sounded purposefully pathetic,
"the boot does pinch." His foot in fact was swinging,
which was an unconscious gesture that would intrigue

271

the good Dobrinon. "I cannot reconcile coercing you
to find out if the . . . flitting four were in any way
coerced."

"I quite appreciate your dilemma, so I'll lift you off
one horn. I do not, not even after all your interesting
disclosures, consider myself coerced. Ah ah," for Rocco
began to protest. "Pressured? Possibly, but I've been
conditioned to a fine sense of responsibility, you see.
I brought the equations for that nardy drive back to
Regulus, and I inadvertently misplaced four passengers
who were, you must admit, essentially my responsibility
to convey thither and hither safely. I'd like some peace
of mind on both counts."

"I'll forego knowing about our lost souls if you'll
forego that drive."

"No way. I want that drive. How else can we pay
oS my indebtedness?"

"I'll call foul for you?"

"Rocco, I'm surprised. Shocked! This cannot be the
incorruptible ..."

"Damn it, Helva, I want you out of that contract
and out away from Parollan. He's dangerous!" Rocco
was on his feet and pacing.

"Good heavens! Why?"

"He's got a fixation on you, a brawn fixation."

"Who told you that? Broley? Oh, fardles, Rocco!
Because he had the Asurans extrapolate a solido of me
from my genetic background?"

"You knew?"

"He had a set made of every BB ship he super-
vised."

Rocco pointed a finger at her. "You're different."

"Quite likely. He's my brawn. Bluntly, Rocco, you're
making a tempest in a teacup."

"A fixation could be dangerous to you in space,
Helva, in a man of Parollan's sexual appetite."

"That fixation reached critical . . . and passed.
That's why Niall became my brawn. He's far more
aware of the inherent dangers of a brawn fixation than
you are, Rocco. Or Broley."

Rocco affected a shrug, but Helva suspected he was
unconvinced.

"All right, Helva, we're back to Square One and I'll

272

rephrase my initial question: Do you want what you
now have, or were you mods to want it?"

"Hey, Helva," Niall said into the corn-unit, "let the
lift down."

"Think on it, Helva, and remember that you can
count on my support if you feel that you have ac-
tually been constrained against your own best interests."

Niall's hearty "Helva, I got 'em," as he waved the
grapelike cluster of circuit guards, dwindled off in
surprise at seeing their guest. "Well, we're honored,
Rocco?"

"My congratulations on your appointment, Parollan.
I'll be following the exploits of the NH-834 with re-
newed interest."

"I'll just bet you will." Niall's smile took the sting
out of his slightly aggressive words.

"Fair enough," replied the Double M official, his own
expression sardonic. He moved toward the airlock.
"You are, you realize, very definitely in a minority."

"How so?" asked Niall, amused, as he neatly ar-
ranged the circuit guards on the gutted console and
turned to face Rocco.

"My good Parollan, you are the only man who
ever resigned from BB ship service to become a
brawn."

"I'm no mutant."

Helva could hear the edge in Niall's voice, although
generally his small stature didn't bother him.

"What is the definition of a mutant?" That was
Rocco's exit line as the lift took him down, looking
entirely too pleased with himself.

"Well, hump me, what was he after?" Niall asked.

"I gather he's been listening to Broley's gossip."

"And what is the gospel according to City Manager
Shell Person Broley?"

"We're being coerced."

Niall scratched his ear, screwed up his face, and
gazed out of the open airlock. Helva was situated by
the immense Engineering sheds of the Regulus Base
Complex. Niall had a clear view of the distant admin-
istration buildings at the opposite end of the plain.
There were, as always, tremendous comings and goings

273

of small ground vehicles and light helis. as well as slim
BB ships.

Niall looked away from the airlock, toward her.
Reetingly Helva wondered if Niall Parollan "saw" the
titanium column behind which her encapsulating shell
rested, or the solido the Asurans had made, extrapo-
lating a mature human body from her genetic back-
ground.

"You should have asked Rocco what's the definition
of 'coercion,' " he said.

Helva gave a snort. "Well, you've never been re-
strained, either morally or physically."

"Balls," Niall replied in disgust. "And I don't need
Rocco on my tail, too."

"Speaking of tails," Helva said gently because she
caught the pulse of the comset about to light up, "here's
our daily Railly now."

"Fardles! He's two minutes late. Railly," said Niall
before the Chief could speak, "I'm up to my crotch in
circuit guards that I should have had two days ago. Go
way now and I'll call you back when I've finished."

"Parollan, there's isn't a Guild on this Base that
isn't . . . Come out from under that console while I'm
addressing you!"

Helva realized that all Railly could see of Parollan
was his rear end.

"As you're constantly addressing me, and I know
what you look like, my position provides no impedi-
ment to hearing every word you say. Besides which,
I'm busy."

"Parollan, I'm warning you . .."

"Which you do hourly. But I thought you wanted
this expensive ship to lift ass and cease to offend your
eyes, so what are you complaining about now?"

"You are not, I repeat, you are not to walk into any
other section of this Base and badger, bully, or beat
any other section leader or supervisor into giving
your request top priority!"

"And if I don't comply, what'll you do? Throw me
off Base?" Niall suddenly reversed his position and
glared up at the comscreen. "Good, then Helva does
not have to complete this mission if I am not her
brawn." He made as if to quit his task.
274

"Parollan! You get on with the job! But I'm warning
you . . ."

"Let's see, that's the fourth warning today, isn't it,
Helva?"

"I don't keep track, Niall," she said gently, hoping
her tone would warn him to be a shade more diplo-
matic. They'd be completely at Railly's mercy if the
c-v drive weren't approved by the Corviki.

Fortunately Railly broke the connection. Chuckling,
Niall ducked back under the panel.

"You know, Niall, if ..."

"Helva!" His tone was slightly exasperated but re-
assuring. "The Raillys of this world can take a lot
more backtalk than you think. Particularly, my girl,
with all he stands to gain with you . .."

Helva would rather he'd said "us."

"Even without that drive vetted, you're twice the
ship. And with me to keep you from going soft with
the likes of Railly, we'll make out one way or the
other."

Helva was grateful for the plural pronoun. Now why
had Rocco come to disturb her with his questions?
While it was flattering to think she had so many friends,
willing to do battle for her, she'd prefer to rely on her
brawn.

Just then Supply arrived with an order of emergency
rations to be stowed away.

"Why the fardles get in 'fortified coffee'? Yecht!"
Niall was disgusted when the invoice was screened in.

"// we try that drive and can't manage it, or the
particular emissions disqualify that application ..."

"Think positively, my dear, and besides you're not
ham-handed, gal, like those cloddies on the manned
test ship."

"You might need concentrated supplies ..."

"That coffee bubka is for--"

"It's better than no coffee. And half the supply hold
is coffee. I wish I could figure out why everyone
wants that stuff."

"Which reminds me," said Niall, crawling out from
under the console and heading for the galley.

"Ah yes, you haven't had a cup in the last fifteen
minutes."

27?

"Longer. I had to extrude these things myself, you
know. And we're having a party tonight."

"We've had a party every night."

Niall shot an overly innocent glance at her. "All
#work and no play . . ."

"What'll you do when we're aspace?" The question
slipped out of her, probably due to Rocco's crack about
enforced celibacy and Niall Parollan.

"The modern man is not dominated by his gonads,
love. Think of the memories I'll have to sustain me."
He cracked the seal on the coffee container as neat

emphasis.

The lift buzzer rang. "If that isn't Breslaw, I'll have
him arrested on board."

It was indeed the engineering officer, panting from
the run across the huge engineering field. Helva was
certain that Commander Breslaw had never, since he
reached that rank, worked as hard as he was in over-
seeing each detail of her refitting, his computer cas-
sette overheating from his constant demands. He
was losing weight, too, Helva noticed with a critical
eye. Do him good; make him look better in uniforms
if he won his gamble on Helva's future.

"Do you two appreciate me?" asked Breslaw, lean-
ing against the lock bulkhead to catch his breath.
"Anyway, the ceramic coating is scheduled for tomor-
row at 0900."

"About bloody time."

"Parollan . . ." And there was a slight edge to
Breslaw's mock animosity. "One of these days I'm go-
ing to-- "

"Get that final stripe for doing some work for a
change," Niall finished. "You've only been promising
that ceramic coating for the past three days. Fardles,
how do you guys run this Base at all?"

"Look, Parollan, I want to run a final check on
those tolerances in the drive room."

"Bloody right. I don't want something coming adrift
at the speeds we'll be traveling."

"You hope," Breslaw amended gloomily.

Niall ignored him but the Commander's pessimism
did not reassure Helva, not after Rocco's disturbing
visit.

276

"Helva," her brawn said, "when those electricians
appear--"

"I'll assemble them."

"Make 'em do it right the first time."

No sooner had he and Breslaw disappeared down
the hatch to the drive room than the four tech ratings
arrived, tremendously relieved that Parollan was not
in evidence.

"He's a bugger to work for," muttered one of the
men as he surveyed the console.

"Then use the luck," said another, "and let's get
cracking before he does come back or we'll have to do
the job over to prove we did it properly."

"Then do it right the first time," said Helva.

"Fardles," exclaimed the first man, looking nerv-
ously around him. "I forgot she was here."

"Where else did you think Helva would be?" asked
the oldest of the quarter. "Sorry, ma'am. Now these
green circuits have to be laid in first. Get with it,
Sewel."

Helva turned on microvision, focusing it on Sewel's
hands. Once she was certain he knew what he was
about, she scanned the others. That panel had to be
wired with the utmost precision or a cross-circuit could
short out the entire panel at a crucial time. Further,
the work was done with a minimum of waste motion.
Niall Parollan may have been a bugger to work for,
but work for him, and her, was well and expeditiously
completed.

When they'd finished, she broached some of the
party spirits for them in appreciation.

"Sun's over the yardarm for you, too, Commander,"
said Niall, returning with a dusty but pleased Breslaw.
"Well worth it," he said after he'd inspected the console
wiring. "I appreciate it, men," he said, toasting them:

"my partner appreciates it," and he raised the glass to
Helva's column: "Commander Breslaw appreciates
it, and the Service will undoubtedly not bother to ap-
preciate this unusual and prompt performance of your
duties."

Sewel and the others were not certain that they
should appreciate his toast, but the spicy Vegan liquor
was far too palatable to resist.

277

After a third round from the bottle, Breslaw sud-
denly remembered that he was the supervisor of the
Engineering Section of Regulus Base and that there
were other matters for his attention as urgent as re-
fitting the NH-834.

"But not as rewarding," Niall said, and restrained
Breslaw.

When Sewel tried to leave, he and his men were all
told to stay until the party had begun.

"Hell, your work day's over. We can't do anything
more to Helva until tomorrow when she gets her
unbreakable, unbeatable, unwarpable, fusion-resistant
coat, so let's have some fun."

The tech ratings were far too nattered to think of
going and Helva was certain that the next time Niall
Parollan needed an urgent electrical systems job done,
these same men would leap at the chance to work on
it.

The lift signal went just then as the duly invited
members of the party began to arrive.

As usual during one of NialTs parties, the lounges,
the cabins, the galley, the passageways soon filled with
people prepared to enjoy and give enjoyment. Several
brawns arrived, two of whom Helva knew were
awaiting assignment and very envious of Niall's luck,
but the majority of visitors were not service personnel.
Therefore Helva was not only pleased but flattered
that every new arrival first directed attention to the
hostess, coming to her panel and either introducing
themselves if this were their first appearance, or re-
newing their acquaintance with a chat. They tended to
treat her as if she were visible and as mobile as them-
selves. She would have expected such courtesy from
service-trained people, but in her travels Helva had
regrettably discovered that the average person found it
hard to cope with the concept, much less the reality,
of a shell person. She'd used that to her advantage,
but it was a welcome change to be considered a real
person. How much of this was Niall's pre-party in-
struction or the good manners of intelligent, well-
traveled men and women, she didn't know. But she
enjoyed it.

A youngish art dealer, Permut Capiam from Ophiu-
chus Minor, gave her one explanation.

"Actually, I met Niall when he commissioned those
Asuran solidos he used to get done for his BB ships.
He used to complain that he had to spend a fortune
keeping solidos of your partners because you changed
so often. Seen yours?" Permut frowned. "No, I don't
suppose that'd be good or rather . . ." he giggled, "a
bit too good for your old ego." He waggled a finger at
her exact position behind the panel. "Can't blame old
Parollan for having a fix on you, Helva. You 'strapo-
lated out the best of the lot. Must say, though, that it
makes it easier to think of your solido than all this
tinplating."

So, Niall's emotional attachment to her was public
knowledge? Was this a good sign or a bad one?

Permut rattled on knowledgeably about Asuran
extrapolations as he'd handled quite a few commis-
sions. "Prehistory Roman and Greek statues are the
rage right now. The Asurans merely need a fragment
to do the whole sculpture, you know. They do it up in
whatever material the client wishes--anything inani-
mate. There's a law now against low-life constructs."
He became very serious. "That way lay madness . . .
ugh! Zombie things. I was ever so relieved when the
whole business was interdicted by CWC. The sort of
low-life restoration is very dangerous." He stressed the
syllables of the last two words.

"Have you tri-ds of the work you've handled?"
Helva asked, curiously.

"You mean of the realities?" Permut was startled.

"No, tri-ds of, say, your latest showing. I don't fit
in most galleries .. ."

"Oh my word, my gallery'd fit in you."

"And lately I've been so busy I've not had tune to
revise my library."

"My dear Helva, what an appalling omission. What's
wrong with Parollan? It's the least he could do for you.
Man doesn't live by bread alone, nor exist on a diet of
pure physical sensation. Really. Say, I know just the
person to give you. --Abu, honey girl, don't you have
some spares of those marvelous tapes you did of the
Ceta tour? You do like ET dance forms, don't you,

Helva? I mean, you've done your stint on the boards,
so to speak. Abu has some perfectly magnificent free-
fall performers."

Abu was an incredibly lithe albino who had capital-
ized on her genetic inheritance. She did wear remedial
contacts for light sensitivity and, Helva noticed on fine
vision, the girl also utilized a skin film so artfully ap-
plied that only magnification detected it.

Abu spoke with the lilt of one whose first language
was pitched. The gently musical voice and her extreme
grace fascinated Helva. Abu was equally entranced
by Helva and the three of them chatted about new
dance and art forms.

Suddenly Niall exploded back into the main lounge,
carrying two long flaming skewers with bits of meat and
vegetables. Behind him danced triplet girls, a dance
team from Betelgeuse now the rage of Regulus City,
dangerously brandishing their lighted skewers.

"Ancient earth recipe," Niall announced. "Shish
kebabs. Have 'em while they're hot. There're plenty
more where these came from. Don't burn your tongue."

Helva had wondered where he'd gone.

"Three of them?" Permut said with a rueful laugh.
"No wonder he declared the galley out of bounds."

Helva caught the implication that more than culinary
arts had been practiced there.

"With three of them?" asked Abu, taking the same
interpretation. The gleam of regret in her eyes was not
completely masked by her protective lenses.

"You know Parollan, my dear."

"Not as well as I'd like."

Then Niall was proffering them the still smoking
meats.

"Oooh, this is good," Abu said, nibbling delicately
and then rolling her eyes with appreciation. "This can't
be mutton?"

"Regulan mutton!" Niall replied.

"It can't be," protested Permut, licking his fingers
and grabbing more.

"All in the marinade, all in the marinade."

"Is that a new position?" Permut asked archly.

Niall laughed tolerantly and moved on to serve

280

other guests, but the ambiguous ribaldry disturbed
Helva.

"Do you have olfactory senses, Helva?" Abu asked.
"It seems rude to be so ... so ... rapacious in
front of you."

"I don't smell as you do but I am able to sense
fairly minute alterations in the composition of the
air within and about me that would indicate odor."

"That's not quite what Abu meant," Permut said.

"I know but it's all I got."

"And you can't taste either?"

"No."

Abu's sensitive face registered dismay at this lack.
"I thought you shell people could do everything we
could."

"Not . . . everything," Permut said, and then some
unuttered thought convulsed him with laughter.

Abu regarded him blankly for a moment and then
with growing impatience and disgust.

"Everything comes back to sex with you, Permut."

"Not . . . not everything," he managed to say be-
tween gasps of laughter.

"Actually, Abu, the programming of the olfactory
sensors does give me an indication of a human's re-
ception of smells. If there's sulfur in the air, I'd know
it, I assure you, as something distinctly unpleasant. As
for taste, I can't miss what I haven't had," Helva said,
hoping that Permut would stop being so prurient. He'd
been good company up till now. "I would like to know
how coffee tastes. Everyone seems to fancy it so above
all other beverages."

Abu laughed. "I think it smells better than it tastes.
Especially if you've got roasted beans and grind them
fresh," her tone of voice dripped with gustatory
pleasure.

"You know, I'd forgot that coffee is brewed from
beans. I've only the container-type aboard."

"The best beans come from Ipomena in the Alphe-
can sector. I've a small supply given me by an admirer
that I keep for special occasions."

"You do?" Permut asked, abruptly recovering his
composure. "You do?" he repeated, sidling up to Abu
and making such absurd expressions that she began to

281

laugh. "I tell you what, Abu, purely to aid in Helva's
education, I will partake of your Ipomenan brew and
give her a critical opinion of the quality, aroma,
flavor, savor. .."

"Oh, you!"

Suddenly Niall's voice rang out in happy surprise.
"Davo Fillaneser? But of course, twice welcome. Come
on up, Davo. Helva!"

Niall's clarion greeting had effectively silenced the
babble and all eyes were on the newcomer appearing
from the air lock. Davo smiled and so played up his
entrance, bowing with such elaborate flourishes of
nonexistent cape and hat, that everyone applauded.

"Fillaneser played Beta Corvi with Helva. Only he
came back," Niall said by way of introduction, and the
actor was quickly surrounded. Davo cast a humorously
despairing glance toward Helva, mouthing "I want to
talk to you later," as he was borne away.

It wasn't until after Niall mendaciously declared that
Railly'd imposed a one o'clock curfew on his parties
and started shoving people out the hatch as quick as
the lift could make the trip, that Davo had a chance
to approach Helva.

"Any chance of speaking to you, Helva?"

"You mean, privily?"

Davo nodded with a mirthless smile for her Shakes-
pearean language.

"That is, if Niall can clear the deck ..."

"Preferably of himself as well. Or is that too much
to ask?"

Circumstances, in the persons of the triplets who
helped to clean up the party debris, abetted Davo's
wish. Niall found himself, or so he said, obliged to be
sure the girls had transport into the City.

"It is past pumpkin time for Cinderellas," she said,
and Niall commended her to Davo's company, and dis-
appeared with his giggling trio.

"Does he mean to take on all three of them, Helva?"
Davo asked.

"I'm under the impression that they've got something
cooked up,"'she replied, and then chuckled over her
phrasing. How would Dobrinon interpret that Freudian

282

slip? Davo guffawed, so Helva decided he'd been told
about the shish kebab episode.

The actor's laughter faded though, and he took to
pacing around the lounge. Helva waited. The next line
was all his.

"I'd heard you'd paid off, Helva."

"Great heavens to Betsy, does everyone in the Gal-
axy know that?"

"You don't know how many friends you have,
Helva, who make it their business to keep track of
you."

"I'd heard you'd volunteered to go back to Beta
Corvi for Dobrinon," she said, starting her own offen-
sive.

Davo winced. "That's when they were sending that
manned test ship with the c-v drive."

Helva laughed. "Just as well you didn't go, Davo,
you'd be coming back for the next nine years."

"That wasn't why I didn't go, Helva. I copped out
at the last moment. Did Dobrinon tell you that?" Davo
looked directly at her now, and she could see the ex-
cited glitter in his eyes, the tenseness of his jaw mus-
cles. "I turned coward. I couldn't go through that
again. As much as I wanted to find out how Kuria
and Prane . . . and Chaddress were. Helva . . ."
Davo's voice shook with barely contained emotion, "is
it true? That you're being forced to go back?" The
question tumbled out of his mouth and his tone was
distraught. "How can they let you put yourself in
jeopardy like that again? I mean, Helva, you have
many important friends, powerful ones. All you have
to do is let us know . . ."

Helva was so flabbergasted at Davo's concern, at his
suggestion that she almost laughed.

"Davo, my very good friend, I am in no jeopardy."

"Now, look, Helva," Davo assumed a man-to-man
stance, "I don't care how many circuits are being
tapped, who I have to buy or suborn, you--"

"Davo, where are you getting this notion from?
Broley?"

"Broley?" Davo's surprise suggested that the City
Shell Manager was not his informant.
283

"No, I don't guess you'd have any contact with the
City Manager."

"I have spoken with him. He goes to all the plays,"
Davo admitted, "but not this trip."

"Well, then, where did you get this wild notion that
I'm in any danger?"

"It's all over," and Davo made an expansive gesture.
"You can't want to go back to Beta Corvi?" His con-
vulsive shudder was not feigned; nor was the glint of
terror in his eyes.

"Truthfully, no. But it's the only way I'll find out."

"Find out what, for the love of reason?"

"Oh, if the c-v drive works or will blow the cosmos
to bits with the particular emissions, if our friends
. . . exist. Take it easy, Davo," she added gently as
she saw the man working himself up to another explo-
sion. "Let's say I'm willing to take a gamble . . . with
my eyes wide open to the probabilities. Which do,
after all, favor me. The stakes are high, and when you
get right down to the welded seam, there's more than
that c-v drive to be vetted and lost souls accounted for.
Tell me, in all this wild talk, what's the gen on Niall
Parollan?"

Davo looked uncomfortable for a split second, and
then only hesitant. He took a sharp deep breath and
regarded her frowningly.

"I tell you, Helva, Parollan had a lot to do with our
debriefing when we got back here after Beta Corvi. I
liked what I saw of the man then. He had real sym-
pathy for all of us--and he was very worried about
the effects of the mission on you. Get right down to it,
most of his questions during his interview with me had
to do with you."

Helva fondly remembered Niall's abrasively divert-
ing and restorative presence the night she'd come back
... an empathy utterly shattered days later when
he made known his opinion of her choice of Teron
of Acthion as brawn: a well-substantiated opinion.

"What I hear about Regulus City now . . ." Davo
summarized that in a long low whistle.

"Tell me, what's the betting on our length of partner-
ship? On the success of our mission? On Railly's mak-
284

ing CW Council? And Breslaw hitting Chief?" With
each of her questions, Davo's eyes opened wider.

"Damn it, Helva, the whole tone about you and
Parollan, not to mention those others, is so ... so
disgustingly commercial, so sordid, that I had to
see you. What I heard doesn't jibe with the Helva I
know."

"Or the Parollan you've met."

"Right!"

"Do you agree that people under stress react more
honestly than people in a party or gossip situation?"

"Certainly."

"So. Don't think I'm not highly flattered and touched
by your concern, Davo. I am. But I think we, Niall
and I, the NH-834, are a winning combination."

"I certainly hope so, Helva. I certainly hope so."

Amusement bubbled up in Helva. "I wish you'd read
that line with more convincing sincerity, Davo."

"I wish I felt it myself. I don't favor this part for
you, Helva. And I'm not alone. Remember, gal, all
you gotta do is shout."

"Shout in an ammonia-methane atmosphere?"

"Don't tell me you want to play a return engagement
there, Fillaneser?" Niall asked from the lock.

"No entrance cues, Helva?" asked Davo, annoyed.

"This team can't operate on two levels, Davo, not
and succeed."

The actor nodded. He extended his hand to Niall.

"I'll wish goodspeed and a safe trip home, Helva,
Parollan."

That line did have the ring of sincerity.

"You weren't long about it," Helva said, relieved by
Niall's return for several reasons she didn't care to
probe.

Niall was peering out at the night, at Davo's descent,
so Helva left the lock open until he gave a snort and
turned back to the lounge, frowning as he surveyed it.

"No, when I got to the gate, the Yerries had been
refueling so I let them take the girls on in. Besides," he
stretched and yawned mightily, "I need my beauty
sleep." He bent down to scoop up a container tucked
against the end of a couch, lobbed it toward the disposal
chute, dusting his hands as his shot hit dead center.

"And tomorrow, we skin you, m'love. And then . . ."
He rubbed his hands with anticipation as he moved
toward his quarters.

"Up, up, and away?"

"Yup!"

He stripped and washed with his usual neat despatch
and then lay on his bunk, hands clasped behind his
head.

"That was a real good bash," he murmured, eyes
closed, a happy smile on his face. "Good night."

"Good night, sweet prince, and may . .."

Niall's eyes flew open and he made a mock-
exasperated noise in his throat. "Will you never rid me
of your Shakespeare saws? When I think of a perfectly
good, well-behaved ship consorting with ribald, rowdy
actors ... I cringe." But he yawned again and was
asleep before his jaw closed.

Helva chuckled as she secured the lock, lowered all
but her safety lights, and began her habitual nightly
check. Suddenly it was too silent; too empty of Niall
and his energy. He was sort of like having one's own
private hurricane and he probably expended as much
energy as the nardy c-v drive could.

Would that thing work? And what accounted for
Breslaw's pessimism? Had he rechecked some factor to
a lower probability? Or was it the particle emission that
troubled everyone? Even if the c-v drive were fea-
sible, the emissions could make it highly impractical
in settled space, which would rule out its use as far as
Helva was concerned. Unless of course they detached
her to Search and Survey. But would that kind of
long-distance lonely travel suit Niall Parollan?

Why had she been plagued with both Rocco and
Davo today? And why had Abu asked about her two
missing senses? She'd had them in the Beta Corvi en-
velope. Not that "coffee" would be anything tastable
by a Corvikan. Did they have its equivalent, Helva
wondered?

Had Niall really overcome that brawn fixation? More
corrosive to her peace of mind, if ruthlessly suppressed,
was her own disquieting wish to see that Asuran solido.
Shell people were conditioned not to think about physi-
cal appearance. They were told that their bodies were

286

physically stunted to fit in the shells. They knew that
they were necessarily immersed in nutrient fluids, that
there were masses of wires connecting the various sec-
tions of their brains to the sensors that allowed them
to operate their particular vehicle or mechanisms. It
was tacitly understood that a shell person was a gro-
tesque in a civilization that could ensure physical per-
fection and pleasing looks.

Only now had it become important to Helva to know
that, but for the birth defect that had destined her to
be a shell person, she would have been beautiful. She
wanted to be, she could have been, but she wasn't.
And it was possible that Niall, deprived of all feminine
companionship on long trips, might succumb to the
temptation to open her shell. Illegally he had obtained
the release words, a sequence and pitch unique and
supposedly known only to one person, which would
open the panel and give access to her titanium shell
beyond. As Rocco had said, a brawn fixation was
dangerous.

The unbidden thought of Niall sporting with the
three nubile girls in the galley exacerbated her mind.
Had he suggested to Permut and Abu that they keep
her occupied while he was . . . ?

You . . . are a jealous bitch! Helva told herself in
measured tones of surprise and self-repugnance. A
shell person jealous of a mobile? For a sexual reason?
Ridiculous and yet, she'd all the symptoms of sheer
flaming jealousy.

She'd loved Jennan, but there'd been no trace of that
utterly human vice in their relationship.

Well, Helva thought sternly, you didn't have to
worry about sharing Jennan with half the female popu-
lation of the Galaxy. And you didn't love him this
way: you loved Jennan with a purity equal to Juliet's,
with not a care as to things-as-they-are. You'd've
changed your tune if Jennan had lived.

Or would I?

Jennan, at least, had been discreet. Unlike the stud
she'd aboard her now.

Had Niall passed the danger point of his fixation? Or,
when his libido reached the unendurable in space,
would the temptation to open her panel return?

287

How much did Niall count on the Corvikis approv-
ing the drive? How long would he stay her brawn if
they didn't?

It was scant consolation to realize that the cycle-
variant drive wasn't the only one undergoing a test
run.

By the time the immense crane had swung her back
on her tail fins, Helva was evaluating her new suit of
superfine superskin.

"You gleam, baby, you glisten, you shine in the sun
like a jewel," Niall said into his combutton. In the
company of Breslaw and Railly and several of the
ceramicists, he was standing at a distance from her on
the apron of the kiln building. "By god, you're blue in
some lights. Is that stuff iridescent, Breslaw?"

Helva increased the magnification of her scanner on
the group. Breslaw was beaming fatuously, for the
process was a new application of old techniques and
the coating had been accomplished with relatively no
halts or snags. Certainly the finished product was im-
pressive.

"How d'you feel, Helva," Niall asked.

"How's one supposed to feel after a face-lifting?"

"Bruised. Stop being so eternally female, woman.
Are all your systems go? We don't need a clogged pore
where we're going."

Helva'd been doing a rapid check of her exterior
installations. Everything was in operating order, but she
felt differently. Not uncomfortable, merely altered.

"So," Railly was saying to Niall in a steely, teeth-
clenched voice, "now how soon can you lift?"

"Why, Chief, we'd've been away two days ago if I
could've got any decent cooperation from servicing
personnel." Blithely unaware of Railly's pop-eyed re-
action, Niall turned to the startled ceramicists. "Do we
need to wait until her skin cools?"

The senior technician stammered out something
about temperature variations and tolerances, and then
shrugged assent.

"Great. Good-bye all. See you sometime yesterday!"

With art insolent salute, Niall strode across the per-
matarm toward Helva. She let down the lift for a quick

288

getaway, keeping one eye on Railly, who was apoplec-
tic at the calculated insolence. Breslaw began speaking
to his superior, though Helva couldn't tell if he were
pacifying Railly or diverting him with other matters.
The ceramicists had certainly departed quickly.

No sooner was Niall within than he brusquely sig-
naled her to secure for lift-off. She started to get clear-
ance from the Control Tower before she remembered
a minor detail.

"We've no supervisor."

"Oh yes, we have. Railly!" The name came out as
a growled curse. Niall bounced into the pilot's seat,
strapped down. "Let's get off this fardling base. Now!"

She began lift-off, sluggish because of the extra
weight in drive chamber, strut, and skin.

"It's heavy going, Niall," she warned him and then
piled on thrust.

Once clear of Regulus's service satellites, Niall
spun himself away from the console.

"One more moment down there listening to Railly
and I'd've done my nut!" He heaved himself out of
the pilot chair and floated across the lounge, his ex-
pression bleak and weary.

As she felt rather elated to be finally away, she was
momentarily dumbfounded by the transformation in
her private whirlwind. She was even more surprised
when he bypassed the galley and hand-pulled himself
into his cabin.

"Wake me, girl, if anything startling occurs."

He kicked off his boots, stripped off the shipsuit,
rolled under the cover, pulling the free-fall strap across
him, and was asleep before his arm dropped slowly
back.

And so he slept and slept and slept. Which was no
consolation to Helva.

She occupied herself at first by space-testing all her
functions, did a bit of jockeying on thrusters to get
the feel of how the modifications in her hull affected
her maneuverability. She felt like a scow, and won-
dered if the now inert mass of the c-v drive would
lighten once it was operative.

Asleep, Niall Parollan did not resemble his waking
self; there was a curious vulnerability about his

289

mouth, the sweep of rather long eyelashes on wide
cheekbones. He looked altogether too young to be his
chronological age and rather defenseless. He did not
twitch, toss, or snore, moving less than usual in what
she understood were normal sleep patterns. Economi-
cal that. She watched him for quite a long time, as if
memorizing the very pores of his rather coarse skin,
the way his hair pattern took an abrupt turn at the
back of his head.

She firmly closed off that scanner and searched
about her for sleeptime occupation. She dialed for
Abu's dance tapes and viewed the first five minutes of
one before it occurred to her that the dance forms were
highly erotic and far too suggestive for her present
state of mind. She nipped over to Permut's latest
showing and, although she tried to be completely ob-
jective, discovered phallic symbols of one flagrant sort
or another were the themes of all the art forms he
was currently exhibiting. Exhibition indeed!

Rather appalled at the prominence of sexual motifs,
she sought refuge in the good Solar Prane's nighttime
occupation, but she had scarcely got into Julius Caesar,
a play that ought to have been safe, when the tone of
jealousy began to make itself obvious. King Lear was
not much better, nor Coriolanus. She switched to
comedy and got a good way into The Comedy of Errors
before the stupidity of the lovers became too ironic.
The Tempest was no good: she felt akin to poor Cali-
ban and that did her morale no good.

She decided that the only safe subject was the specs
of the c-v drive, and tried to imagine that she were a
Corviki examining the data and how it/she/they/he
would react. The exercise was not felicitous because
she began to think the c-v drive wouldn't work: it was
an appallingly wasteful use of energy because the
thrust had to be directed away from the goal to protect
frail human bodies. Her conclusion depressed her so
she turned back to Abu's tapes. There must be some
dances that did not depict love-erotic or love-denied
or ...

Yes, the fifth tape was of a formal insect dance from
the Lyrae IV system: color, motion, almost mesmeriz-
ing, very soothing certainly to Helva's distressed sen-

290

sibilities. Gratefully, she gave herself up to the play of
form and color. Halfway through the tape and much
calmer, she wondered idly if it were Niall's sex drive
she'd have to worry about.

Sixteen hours later Niall Parollan awoke, stretched,
catapulted out of the bunk in one movement, and sang
merrily away in the shower.

"What's our running time to Beta Corvi?" he asked
as he was dressing. "And let's put on a bit of grav,
love."

"Fourteen standard days, twelve hours, and nine
minutes. How much grav, three-quarters?" She began
to apply gravity as he settled himself in the galley.

"That's it exactly," he said, holding up his hand,
and making a cut-off gesture. He bounced a little as
he made for the coffee cupboard. With a warming con-
tainer in one hand, he prepared a staggering protein
meal.

"What? No shish kebabs?"

"That junk's for show." He took a long swig of the
now hot coffee. "Ah, that's the stuff. Gotta keep up the
image." He snorted as if repudiating that same image.
"I think what recommends you most to me, dear girl,
is that I don't have to be anyone but Niall Parollan
within your stately walls." He stretched again until his
shoulder bones cracked. "God, I'm still tired, riding
those ship monkeys to get us out of there. Say, how's
your nutrient balance?"

"Just great."

"What'd you do to amuse yourself last night?"

"Actually, I settled on some tapes Abu sent on
board .. . formal insect dances from Lyrae."

Niall stared at her. "Great jumping puddles of
fardle! Couldn't you find anything more exciting?"

"Quite likely," and Helva giggled without explana-
tion. "But you know, the dances were very soothing."

"Do you always do something like that?" The no-
tion evidently distressed Niall, as if she'd suddenly
sprouted facial hair.

"Oh no. If I'm near enough, I can chat up an-
other ship."

He chuckled. "Yeah, you BB ships are diwils for
knowing gossip before groundstaff."

291

They talked amiably about other inconsequentialities
while he consumed his enormous meal. He stretched
out on the couch, then patted the bulge of stomach.

"Do you eat like that often?"

"Fardles, no. I'd be fat. That'll last me a long
while." He yawned. "Did you get any new music
on board? Abu was talking about some new reels . . ."

He was asleep within half an hour. At first con-
cerned, Helva came to the decision that one of the
reasons Niall Parollan seemed indefatigable around
people was because he could conserve energy at other
times. He woke up refreshed several hours later, ate
lightly, did isometrics "to get rid of some breakfast,"
and then settled down to browsing through the tech-
nical journals he'd had her collect from Regulus Cen-
tral Information. They discussed the article on polymer
extrusions from alien silicates, he studied the c-v drive
specs yet another time, relaxed over a coffee while the
two worked a crossword puzzle in Deltan symbology,
and then he bade her a fond goodnight and went to
bed again.

That set the pattern for their trip as far as activity
was concerned, exactly in accord with what could be
expected from any trained brawn. Two evenings from
Beta Corvi, it dawned on Helva that she had allowed
herself to be influenced too much by people who did
not know Niall Parollan at all ... who knew of him
and about his reputation. She, Helva the 834, knew
another side of the man "himself," without image or
affectation, and that personality was very likable, too
likable. She sighed as she watched, for the twelfth
time, the Lyraen dances and let herself be soothed.
She could carry her true love through the stars and
never touch him. But she could be more to Parollan
than any other female in the entire galaxy, and woe
unto her who tried to part them now!

Beta Corvi pulsed a vivid orange-red on the view-
screen as Helva picked up the first Corviki space
buoy on her scanners. Instantly it colored, a microsun
in the carpet of blackness.

She roused'Niall, who was sleeping in eagle-spread
abandon. Simultaneously the psyche-transfer circuit in

292

her mind was activated and she felt the query of the
alien mind.

In the time it took Niall to rise from his bunk, the
Corviki had established the identity of their visitors,
the reason for their return, the alterations in her hull
and the inactive core of the new drive, and issued her
orbital instructions.

"Hey," Niall protested as a surge of power, unini-
tiated by Helva, sent him lurching into the door frame.

"Sorry, pal, they just took over."

"Took over?" Niall padded into the main cabin,
rubbing his right arm. "I thought you'd wake me when
we reached their first buoy."

"I did." She turned on the rear screen, focused on
the fast-receding marker. "The Corviki don't waste
time, which they consider another form of energy."

"Hmmm. An interesting concept."

"We're approaching orbit," she told him.

He blinked in astonishment. "One thing sure:

those modifications of yours can sure take speed."

"A point."

"Hey, will they give me time to eat? A cup of coffee,
at least?" He gestured at his nakedness. "The head?
Clothes?"

"We should have a few moments to spare," Helva
said with a laugh. His expression was small-boy-
embarrassed.

"Ever the courteous hosts."

He had managed to get himself assembled by the
time the glowing luminosity that was Beta Corvi's third
planet filled the viewscreen. Somewhere down in that
moiling envelope of methane, ammonia, and hydrogen
were the Corviki. Or were Solar Prane and Kuria Ster,
Chaddress or a vengeful Ansra Colmer rising in those
spectacular flares to greet the visitors? If anything re-
mained of those personalities. Helva preferred to share
Dobrinon's optimistic view that those immigrants re-
tained something of their former personalities.

Helva felt the change in the ship before it registered
on the console before Niall.

"We're in orbit? We can transfer?"

The eagerness in his voice produced a perverse
reluctance in Helva. Niall couldn't know, despite all

293

she and Davo and the others had told him, how devas-
tating that experience could be, how insidious. Now
a new fear threatened her: what could that experience
do to the fragile bond they'd been contriving?

"Yes, we can transfer," she said, trying to keep the
growing apprehension out of her voice. And she'd
thought, Dobrinon had assured her, that she'd made
a good adjustment to this return. She'd fooled only
herself.

Niall swung the chair round, helmet half-raised to
his head.

"Is it still that bad, Helva? I can go alone if it's that
hard."

"This we have to do together."
"That's the operative phrase, m'girl, together."
"Let's go--together."

"That's my Helva." The helmet masked his eyes but
not the eager confident smile.

Helva fought/released herself to the experience,
knowing an instant of fleeting terror at being outside
her safe shell. But as the transfer occurred, she re-
minded herself that she bad survived a worse terror
of complete sense deprivation on Borealis, survived it
only because of the Corviki episode.
And Niall was with her this time!
The pressure enveloped her in a deceptive comfort.
She shuddered and the streamers floated up from be-
neath her.

"Niall!" she exuded, anxious lest in that instant
she might have transferred at a distance from him.

"I'm a bloody sea monster." Niall's reassuring domi-
nance was just beyond the large frond. "There you
are!" And he emerged, a creature like herself, already
coloring the shell with his own personal intensity.
A creature like herself!

"Helva! You're . . ." And they spun toward each
other.

"Do not express energy in such a sequence!" A new
dominance, dark, dense, powerful, overwhelmed them
with its authority. "You have imperfect control of
your shells."

By a force more potent than their pent-up frustra-
tions, they were held apart. The energies which they

294

yearned intensely to combine were dampened by the
dominance.

Deliberately, Helva now sought to bury her all-too-
human reactions into the Corviki ethos. "Conserve
energy. Reduce spin. Lock suborbital speeds."

Niall's shell pulsed and shook with his effort to
control his emotions in an alien context and because
of the totally unfamiliar, for him, subjection to a
supra-authority.

"The emanations are unusually rich," the Corviki
emitted, withdrawing some of the repressive authority.
"No similar wastage has been observed despite the
variety now available for analysis." There was approval
in the comment, but also a reinforcement of the initial
warning.

With dark and awful despair, Helva forced her at-
tention to the dominance, anything to distract her-
self from Niall's proximity. In doing so, she recognized
a familiar aura in the dominance.

"Manager?"

"Of the same thermal core. There have been re-
combinations within the mutual group," and the entity
turned such a lavender-purple of Corvikian pleasure
that Helva interpreted "smugness" in his tone.

Taking cowardly refuge in the mission, Helva im-
mediately explained the purpose of their unsolicited
return. As she got to the point, she recognized approval
in the Manager's density.

"From such an extrapolation of the data for use in
the parameters of your race's limitations, undesirable
factors might indeed result from exposing irreconcil-
ables to stability forms," the Manager commented,
rippling with muddy blues. "The multiple interaction
shows commendable concern for the proper conser-
vation of mass energies. The hypothesis is being ex-
amined. Improper equations cause ineffectual results
and perverse conclusions. Matter must be expended
only in constructive quantities."

Simultaneously a host of other dominances was felt,
compounding the authority about her and Niall. The
newcomers were, to Helva's mind, dense with experi-
ential energies, held in lease by immense controls.

29?

Helva had not encountered similar energy groupings
in the first Beta Corvi mission, and began to emit tiny
distressful losses which she was unable to contain.

"Why are you so afraid, Helva?" Niall asked. She
came close to resenting his self-control.

"These entities are so gross with power," she said.
"But fear is not a component in my energy loss. On
Corvi, we have nothing to fear . . ."

"But ourselves," Niall finished for her, his trailing
tendrils floating gently beneath him.

She kept hers tightly entwined lest they stray with-
out her volition . . . and touch him.

"Do not waste energy so," she was advised by one
of the new power group. But the directive held no
censure and Helva let the suborbitals begin to spin
gently so that her tendrils drifted easily, if inevitably
toward Niall's. The Corviki would protect her from
herself.

She was distracted by a series of condensations and
dissipations, expansions and contractions, darting, it
sometimes seemed, through both her shell and Niall's,
as their interrogators fused momentarily or attenuated
in the discussion of the problem presented by the visi-
tors. Apparently such a use of stabilized isotopes had
never occurred to the Corviki. Helva thought that
amusement dominated their discreet emissions. Dense
as these ancient entities were, they had never consid-
ered the possibility of such a direction for familiar
energies.

One entity reasoned that, of all the handicaps
through which life forms must evolve, the adolescent
vigor of this particular species was, at least, divertingly
resourceful.

Helva and Niall drifted in this limbo, amused by an
occasional storm of colorful discussion.

Suddenly the aura changed. With paternal forbear-
ance, the Corviki approved the c-v drive. However,
there were modifications which would reduce the cuy
particles imprudently released by such a clumsy pro-
cess. An inhibiting feedback was required. Otherwise,
although the envelope was unbelievably awkward
and totally unnecessary, dictated as it was by the
exigencies of protecting frail protein matter, they

296

could deduce no annihilative perversion of the applied
data.

They did stipulate that any further application must
be accompanied by a similar inhibitor. They would
know, by virtue of cuy particles in the galaxy, if
that restriction had been ignored. Punitive action would
instantly result.

As abruptly as the dominances had assembled, they
dispersed, leaving Helva, Niall, and the Manager in a
welter of loose fronds and burping ochre eruptions.
Distant novae of emissions drifted back like the light
laughter of the godly, seen and felt, rather than heard.

"Has the drive really been approved?" asked Niall,
bewilderment apparent in the action of his tendrils.

"The emissions were favorable," Helva and the
Manager agreed in chorus.

"Who are you now? Helva?" he demanded, swinging
from one to the other, confusion making his tendrils
rigid.

"I am Helva, here," she said, fighting with the
desire to remain Helva for his sake and the need to
remain Corvikan enough to control precarious excita-
tions.

"Let's find out about the others and leave."

"I have," Helva said.

"Did you not feel that thermal group near you?"
asked the Manager of Niall, shading to ochre neutral-
ity.

"He had not previously encountered their domi-
nances, Manager."

The Manager assumed more color and then, bleed-
ing a little blue, he disappeared.

"You .did have a chance to speak to Prane and--"

"I encountered them in one of the thermal groups.
I'll tell you later when we're back on the ship."

"Then the mission's completed?" The triumph in
Niall's tone colored his shell a brilliant orange-red and
he pressed toward her eagerly.

From behind a frond, first one, then another Cor-
vikan appeared, but Helva was diverted from their ar-
rival by Niall's rapidly changing color.

"We cannot combine!" she cried, and tried to keep
her distance from him.

297

One of the Corviki brushed against her, pushing her
back toward Niall.

"Don't play the professional virgin with me now,
Helva!" His furiously human response was emphasized
by the fiery glow of his shell as every particle became
excited. The Corviki who had pushed her was now
throwing power toward Niall, exciting him further. It
flashed through Helva's awareness on two levels that
the Corviki was familiar to her. She'd no time to iden-
tify it; she had to avoid Niall.

"You don't understand! Don't, Nialll We've got to
get back to the ship!"

"Helva!"

"It's not safe for us. The energy levels are too hot
... Integrity will be violated and--"

The outer edge of his shell touched hers. Sane
thought, Corvikan or human, was impossible. Explo-
sively they began to excite one another, each level in
her seeking its equal in him, slowing, speeding, deli-
cately adjusting, seeking the merger that would be the
imposition of one pattern over the other, all levels
matched, all energies mutual, all...

Other thermal groups were attracted by the emis-
sions, attracted and held, transferring power so that
Helva felt her Corvikan envelope engorge to incredible
dimensions, giving her unlimited mass to energize at
an even higher excitation level. Faster the particular
forces spun, faster, to match speeds, to combine, neu-
tronic shifts of dazzling force ...

Fission ... an incredible stoking of the available
energy . . . the atmosphere splitting with thunder as
immeasurable positive forces began to recombine . . .

Distance was where she was, some black, sense-
deprived consciousness, some tiny flicker of ego, lost,
lost, lost. Unwilling to resume. A slow return to aware-
ness. Exhaustion, death-deep in an overstressed mind.
A shuddering violent release to fall with an endless
spinning grace into unawareness, comforting and kind.

Offensive odor, acrid, strong, staining the lungs, re-
viving the senses that must escape that burden.

To be aware and wish for deprivation! How strange!

Reality came into focus. And, sadly, identity.

298

Niall's body was sprawled by the console, the helmet
upturned on the deck, his grasping hand a scant inch
from it. His shipsuit was dark and damp with stain.
Though he seemed motionless, she never questioned
that he lived. She knew that, knew it as deeply as she
knew her own vitality, low as it was.

It was comforting to look at him: the fatigue-lined
face unguarded and boy-young, the dark hair tousled,
the wiry body limp. Soon he would rouse and then
that dear form would change, would vary and not be
wholly hers.

No ... Helva hesitated. No, an intangible difference
impinged on her growing awareness. She was not
wholly herself. There was a subtle alteration.

Curious, she began to explore her ship self. The
critical difference was not in her systems or hull. She
had full command of every area.

The steady vibration of power in her idling drive,
however, resonated at a new frequency.

A long groan was wrenched from her, reverberating
in the cabin and down the quiet corridors, humming
through the deck plates to rouse Niall.

The c-v drive was functioning. Beta Corvi! Helva's
mind reeled, fighting to deny/accept the experience
that surged back over her in a tsunami of emotions,
abrading stunned sensibilities.

Niall crawled on his hands and knees, staggered to
his feet, swaying as he took the two steps to the pilot's
chair.

But they were here. They had been . . .

She hadn't the energy to transfer back. She hadn't
the strength to tell Niall, who wouldn't have been
strong enough to pick up the dislodged helmet anyway.

Instinct marshaled a response. She must break this
disaster orbit, flee from Beta Corvi. Strange the Cor-
vikans were silent. Humans must interdict that system
to prevent the unwary from ever encountering those
devastating sentients. Some progress was too costly in
terms of human emotions. Who'd suggested that?
She'd remember later. Right now, instinct and con-
ditioning prevailed. She had to escape. She began to
compute a flight pattern, and stopped. The ship was

299

not in orbit around an invidious planet. They were
drifting in space, far from the light of Beta Corvi.

Startled, Helva examined and identified star magni-
tudes, was relieved to find familiar ones about her,
comfortable light-years from Beta Corvi. Safe!

She'd already escaped. How? She couldn't remem-
ber. She scanned the recording banks and realized
that three days. Galactic standard, had elapsed since
they had initiated that fantastic transfer to Corviki III.
And, judging by the distance they'd come, she must
have used the c-v drive. What had the Corvikans said
about an inhibitor? Had they left a trail of cuy par-
ticles? Punitive action?

Niall was stirring, groggily seeking his face with
hands that trembled. He leaned forward, elbows jab-
bing with awkward force into his knees as he held an
aching head. His wiry body shook with an uncon-
trollable paroxysm and an oily sweat exuded from his
pores.

"Drink something, Niall. It's partly lack of food,"
she heard herself say in a voice she scarcely recognized.
"It's three days since we made that transfer."

As he lurched to his feet and stumbled to the galley,
she checked her nutrients and adjusted the acid bal-
ance hastily. Niall clutched at the counter for support
and fumbled for a restorative spray, gave himself a
massive dose. He pulled open the first container he
could reach, gulping its contents before they'd heated.
He knocked down several more cans in an attempt to
close his fingers around one. He finally opened a con-
tainer of soup, drank it, and the shaking subsided. Still
holding the restorative spray, he half staggered to his
cabin, into the shower. He fumbled to turn the water
on, alternating hot and cold sprays, unconcerned that
he was still dressed. The treatment and liquid began to
revive him and he stripped, carefully washing away
the accumulated filth of three lost days.

Freshly dressed, he returned to the galley and found
coffee. As the container was warming, he carried it in-
to the lounge, dropping to the couch that faced Helva.

"Did you check yourself?" he asked anxiously.

"Yes. Acid!."

"Not surprising. What was that about an inhibitor?

How did we get away from Beta Corvi? No, don't ex-
plain how. I know. Fardles! Did we leave a trail of
those cuy particles?"

"I'm not certain I'd know a cuy particle if I met it,"
Helva replied drily. "But they've done something to
the shielding about the drive. To the alloy itself. It's
denser and light. And I feel light, if that makes sense."

"Nothing they do makes sense or no sense." Niall
gave a rueful snort.

"We did use that drive. D'you realize how far we
went in three days?"

"Not far enough." Niall spaced the words out. "And
let us not speed home, c-v drive operative or not. I'm
in no shape to face debriefing. In fact, I'm going to
avoid it if at all possible." But his grin was Niall-
normal as he raised the hot coffee in a toast.

"That is good!" Helva said with mild surprise at the
taste.

Niall blinked. "What did you say?" He leaned for-
ward. "You tasted that?"

Inexplicably, she had savored the coffee taste in his
mouth.

"Yes, that coffee tastes good," she said again after
a very long thoughtful silence.

"Well!" Niall scratched his nose. "How d'you like
them apples?"

"You haven't tasted me apples yet."

Niall took a deep breath that he exhaled in a long
chuckle, all the while regarding the tendril of steam
writhing up from the coffee container.

"Helva, we didn't complete the recombination?"

"I think," Helva spoke slowly, trying her thought
out loud, "that the time limit flipped us back right at
the critical moment." She felt reluctant to examine
her reaction to that interference. She knew with that
part of her which was Niall, just as he knew with his
fractions of her how perilously close they'd come.

"I wonder--would we have withdrawn at all from
Beta Corvi had the fusion been complete?" Niall
laughed softly, his eyes brimming with amusement.
"Hey gal, into which one of us would we both go?
Hell, you're pint-sized and so am I, but who'd've been
us? Or would we have been stuck in the shell? Say,
.301

what was going on down there with that character who
kept pushing you? And pulling me? Oh, that was
them? Fardles, did we damned near get stuck with that
Colmer bitch?" His dismay dissolved in a weak laugh
of relief, and then he sat, a long time, while the coffee
cooled, just staring contentedly at her panel. She knew
that he, too, was mentally probing to estimate the ex-
tent of their meshing.

"I suspect it will take all our lifetimes to figure it
out."

"Quite likely."

The prospect daunted neither.

"Hell, we can't wander off like this," Niall said after
a long, long period of mutual introspection. He shoved
himself out of the couch, lobbed the old coffee into
the disposal chute, and went for another.

"So they altered the shielding?" he asked, leaning
against the counter. "Is there a separate inhibitor? Or
is that the alternation in the shielding? And did you
grasp what the crot are cuy particles? Breslaw is going
to want to know something more specific than that
they're dangerous."

"He suspects that. . ."

"And inconvenient if the Corviki catch us making/
exhaling them?"

"I think their warning should be deterrent enough.
There is a black core within the drive-isotope that
didn't previously exist. There is more of that same
black stuff in a specially shielded container in the sup-
ply bay. It's radiating a purple shade."

"Hey, Helva, did you actually sort out the person-
alities of Kuria, Prane, and Chaddress. What'n'ell do
we tell Dobrinon?"

"As little as possible. No, they were there. At least
I was aware of a Kurla-Prane core, but only because
it was a strong combination."

She saw Niall wince with a regret that she shared.

"We don't, do we, tell him about that in us?"

"Never! I shouldn't like to have to explain some-
thing that is so personally subjective."

"Like tasting coffee?"

"Among other things. Dobrinon would take us apart

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to find out which facets of you got into me in the re-
assembly."

"Gal, we are together!" He enunciated each syllable
with a jab of his finger. "But no one, not any one,
gets any chance to dissect our feelings. Right?"

"Right!"

Then his face dissolved into a smile, part malice,
part pure self-delight, part utter triumph.

"Yeah, gal, have we got a thing going together!"
He shook his head and slapped his thigh. "Hell, yes!
By anything that's been left holy, Helva, there's noth-
ing we can't do now. C'mon, gal, pour on that power.
Cycle that crotty drive to get us back to Regulus yes-
terday. Scatter us cuy particles where we may. We're
going to buy the body corporate forever free of dear
Railly."

If stars had ears, they'd have heard the vast hale-
lujahs ringing from the partnered ship.